6 


OPEN  COUNTRY 

A  COMEDY  WITH  A  STING 


BOOKS  BY  MAURICE  HEWLETT 

Published  by  CHARLES  SCRIBNER'S  SONS 

Open  Country $1 .50 

Halfway  House $1.50 

The  Queen's  Quair $1.50 

New  Canterbury  Tales $1.50 

The  Life  and  Death  of  Richard  Yea  and  Nay  SI. 50 

The  Forest  Lovers $1.50 

Little  Novels  of  Italy $1.50 

Earthwork  Out  of  Tuscany $2.00 

The  Road  in  Tuscany.     Two  Volumes,  net  $6.00 
The  Fool  Errant $1.50 


OPEN   COUNTRY 


A  COMEDY  WITH  A  STING 


BY 

MAURICE  HEWLETT 


''  .  /  ^    '    '    '  ' 


J  J.  J  1 


CHARLES    SCRIBNER'S     SONS 
NEW    YORK       :       :       :       :      1909 


Copyright,  1909,  by 
MAURICE  HEWLETT 

Published  September,  1909 


t     c      t     t   t  I 


0  L  I 


TO 

THE  LADY  OF  THE  COUNTRY 


M 

-I 


461913 


ADVERTISEMENT 

Readers  of  this  Book  who  may  have  made  acquaint- 
ance in  "Halfway  House, ^^  with  my  friend  Mr.  J. 
Senhouse,  are  to  be  warned  that  the  events  there  re- 
lated took  place  between  the  years  1898- 1900,  and 
that  what  I  have  here  to  tell  of  him  must  be  ascribed 
to  a  date  four  years  earlier.  There  is  no  relation 
whatsoever  between  the  two  tales  beyond  the  fact  that 
Mr.  Senhouse  -figures  in  both. 


CONTENTS 


CHAPTER 
I. 

n. 
in. 

IV. 

V. 
VT. 

vn. 
vin. 

EX. 

X. 

XI. 

xn. 
xm. 

XIV. 
XV. 


STATISTICS   OF  A  RESPECTABLE  FAMILY       . 

INTRODUCES   THE   GENTLEMAN   GIPSY 

OF  COMMERCE  WITH  A  DRYAD  BY  A   POOL 

BETWEEN  BILL  HILL  AND   GORSTON  . 

GREEK  AND   ITALIAN  .... 

HOW  HE   WENT  HIS   WAY  .... 

THE  RETURN  TO   GREAT  CUMBERLAND  PLACE 

VOICE   FROM   THE   OPEN   IN   JUSTIFICATION 

VICKY'S   CONCLUSIONS,   AND  THE  FACTS      . 

SENHOUSE   ON  PAN  AND   THE  NYMPHS 

FIRST  APPEARANCE   OF   MR.   NEVILE  INGRAM 

THE  SECRET  OUT.      SENHOUSE  FROM  CORNWALL 
TO   SANCHIA  IN   CHURCH      . 

MR.    N.    INGRAM    ON   THE    POETS   AND    PHLLOSO 
PHERS 


SENHOUSE   ON   CIVILISATION 

SANCHIA   KISSES   HANDS — AND  IS   HANDLED   BY 
THE  WORLD 


XVI.      GORSTON — WITH   A   DIFFERENCE 


PAGE 

3 

14 
26 

38 

51 
61 

71 
81 

95 

105 
119 

128 

145 
155 

170 
184 


X  CONTENTS 

CHAPTER  PAGE 

XVn.  MRS.    PERCIVAL  IS   STAUNCH  TO  THE  IDEA           .  1 95 

XVm.  INGRAM   URGES   A   " MODUS   VIVENDI"          .           .  206 

XIX.  SENHOUSE  FROM  MOSED ALE.      THE  WOMAN'S  ART  219 

XX.  THE  PLAY  QUICKENS  AND  RUNS  UP  TO  A  POINT  23 1 

XXI.      THE  tramp's   TESTAMENT 244 

XXn.      IN  THE   DRAWING-ROOM 25 1 

XXm.      IN  THE   LIBRARY 266 

XXIV.  BRIXTON  AS   A   "LOCUS   PENITENTI/E "         .           .  275 

XXV.  MR.   SENHOUSE,  HAVING  SOWN,   IS   ENGAGED  TO 

REAP 286 

XXVI.  IN    WHAT    MANNER    MR.     SENHOUSE    MADE    SO 

BOLD 301 

XXVn.  VALEDICTORY  EPISTLE  FROM  THE  OPEN  COUNTRY  317 


OPEN   COUNTRY 

A  COMEDY  WITH  A  STING 


OPEN    COUNTRY 

CHAPTER  I 

STATISTICS   OF  A  RESPECTABLE   FAMILY 

The  name  of  Thomas  Wei  bore  Percival  was 
soundly  respected  in  the  city  of  London.  It  stood  for 
a  turnover  of  J&fteen  thousand  pounds,  and  a  private 
income  of  at  least  six  thousand  a  year.  It  centred 
in  the  person  of  a  rosy-gilled,  full-waistcoated  gen- 
tleman of  middle  life — Mr.  Percival  was  five-and- 
fifty  and  admitted  it — to  whom  a  joke  was  dear,  and 
not  less  dear  because  its  scope  and  measurements 
were  accurately  known.  When  Mr.  Percival  came 
into  Lomax's  Bank,  had  said  ''Morning,  Wilkins — 
growing  weather!"  to  the  grey- whiskered  cashier, 
and  handed  over  his  slip  of  green  paper,  a  glance  at 
the  back  was  the  only  formula.  Then  came,  "How 
will  you  take  it,  Mr.  Percival?"  and  Wilkins  had 
his  bundle  of  notes  out  and  his  finger  wet  before  he 
so  much  as  looked  at  the  figures.  Mr.  Percival's 
invariable  reply  was,  "How  I  can  get  it,  my  boy. 
Honestly  if  possible — in  these  days."  Such  old  cus- 
toms die  hard. 

3 


4  OPEN  COUNTRY 

Blount  and  Percival  had  been  the  firm.  East 
India  merchants  they  were,  trading  in  the  Poultry 
for  more  than  two  generations  of  traffic;  and  so  the 
name  stood  now  before  the  world  of  men,  engraved 
on  well-rubbed  brass.  But  everybody  knew  that 
Tom  Percival  had  married  Kitty  Blount,  old  Blount's 
only  child,  and  was  now  Blount  and  Percival  in  his 
own  pair  of  shoes.  Snug  Tom,  they  called  him,  with 
a  fine  girl  and  a  plum  to  himself;  but  always  added 
that  he  well  deserved  his  luck.  And  still  he  stuck  to 
his  desk,  for  all  his  whitening  whiskers.  Ten  to  five 
saw  him  in  the  Poultry  every  day;  a  four-wheeled 
cab  brought  him,  and  sometimes  the  brougham 
would  come  to  take  him  back;  and  passers-by  saw 
the  flash  of  a  white  skirt  in  the  doorway,  and  told 
each  other,  "One  of  old  Tom's  pretty  daughters 
come  for  him."  On  Saturdays  he  left  at  two,  and 
never  varied  his  year  for  more  than  a  month  in  Au- 
gust; but  what  was  to  happen  by  and  by  nobody 
could  tell,  for  he  had  daughters,  and  Mrs.  Percival 
was  ambitious,  and  there  were  many  who  doubted 
whether  what  had  been  good  enough  for  Kitty  Blount, 
that  strapping  girl  she  had  been,  would  be  good 
enough  for  Mrs.  Percival,  high-complexioned,  high- 
stepping  lady  of  Great  Cumberland  Place.  There 
had  been  no  sons  of  the  marriage — five  daughters, 
but  no  son;  and  already  Philippa,  the  eldest,  was 
married  to  a  Mr.  Tompsett-King,  a  West  End  solic- 
itor with  clients  in  the  peerage,  and  accepted  member- 
ship of  the  Athenaeum.  That,  said  the  gossips,  had 
no  look  of  the  Poultry  about  it.     And  next  we  hear 


A  RESPECTABLE  FAMILY  5 

of  Hawise,  the  second  daughter,  engaged  to  a  baronet 
in  the  country.  A  baronet  in  the  country — a  county 
family.  The  Poultry,  on  a  stool  at  Sweeting's,  shook 
its  head  over  Kitty  Percival,  and  said,  "Hard  luck 
on  poor  old  Tom!" 

And  yet,  if  ever  a  man  was  happy  in  his  offspring 
it  was  this  honest  East  India  merchant.  He  adored 
them  all  in  various  ways,  and  suited  his  worship  to 
each  with  a  tact  which  you  had  not  supposed  him  to 
possess.  He  knew,  and  never  shamed  to  say,  that 
they  were  "a  cut  above  him,"  and  often  jogged  his 
knees  (alone,  before  his  smoking-room  fire)  in  tri- 
umph at  the  thought  that,  such  as  they  were,  he, 
stout  Tom  Percival,  had  begotten  them.  He  knew 
also  that  each  fair  girl  of  them  steered  her  own 
separate  course,  each  remote  from  each,  each  with  a 
purposeful  jut  to  her  sharp  chin,  each  (as  it  dimly 
appeared  to  him)  with  a  definite  beacon  ahead  of  her 
fine  bright  eyes.  His  adoration,  then,  was  mingled 
with  respect.  He  respected  Philippa's  incisive  scorn, 
Hawise's  calm,  Melusine's  reverie  (she  was  a  most 
graceful  girl,  and  danced  beautifully),  Vicky's  dar- 
ing and  dash,  and,  above  all  things  in  earth  or 
heaven,  little  Sanchia's  coaxing.  While  Sanchia  was 
a  romp,  her  hair  all  tumbled  about  her  face,  I  think 
Mr.  Percival's  cup  of  happiness  overbrimmed.  She 
had  been  a  beautiful,  healthy  child,  all  roses  and 
roundness,  and  he  had  been  eight  years  younger! — 
still,  as  he  expressed  it,  in  his  roaring  forties.  But 
now  we  are  in  1894,  when  Sanchia  had  had  her  hair 


6  OPEN  COUNTRY 

up  some  three  years,  and  he  was  five-and-fifty.  San- 
chia-Josepha — these  romantic  names! — was  a  young 
lady  of  twenty,  and  would  be  out  as  soon  as  Hawise 
was  married  to  her  Sir  George — Sir  George  Pinwell, 
Baronet,  between  you  and  me  an  insufferable  blonde 
person.  And  Sanchia,  from  a  rosy  coax,  was  turned 
into  a  slim,  thoughtful  girl  with  grey  and  dreamy  eyes 
and  a  sad  mouth.  She  was  quiet  now,  and  rather 
mysterious,  speaking  little  and  (apparently)  thinking 
much.  She  went  her  own  ways,  having  acquired  (by 
not  claiming  it)  much  more  liberty  than  any  of  her 
sisters  had  had.  She  was  fond  of  Art,  and  used  to 
go  to  a  school  of  painting;  she  was  fond  of  reading 
poetry  (wherein  she  differed  from  her  sister  Melusine, 
who  said  that  she  was) ;  and  she  didn't  get  on  with 
her  mother.  Comfort  and  terror  contended  for  her 
father's  soul  as  he  pondered  this. 

There  I  have  always  been  with  her,  I  confess.  I 
never  could  myself  get  on  with  Mrs.  Percival,  who 
seemed  to  me  to  be  at  once  in  arms  against  society 
and  its  abject  slave.  Society,  I  used  to  fancy,  beat 
her  black  and  blue;  and  she  kissed  the  rod.  Sir 
George  Pinwell  treated  her,  for  example,  with  such 
deadly,  cold  insolence  that  I  defy  her  not  to  have 
known  it — and  of  course  no  one  knew  it  better;  but 
his  name  was  balm  to  her  lips ;  she  rolled  it  over  her 
tongue  like  a  salve.  She  had  pride  and  to  spare,  am- 
bition and  to  spare ;  but  the  two  worked  not  together. 
Her  ambition  ought  to  have  been  to  win  scope  for 
her  pride.  It  was  quite  the  other  way.  To  help 
her  ambition  she  humiliated  herself  extremely — until 


A  RESPECTABLE  FAMILY  7 

even  her  husband,  honest  man,  saw  into  what  sore 
passes  she  was  getting  herself,  and  tried  to  rescue 
her.  "I  should  go  slow,  Mother;  I  should  indeed," 
he  would  say,  or,  "Damn  the  fellow"  (this  of  Sir 
George!);  "I'll  give  him  a  piece  of  my  mind  one  of 
these  days."  But  Mrs.  Percival  was  incorrigible. 
With  a  fierce  temper  of  her  own  and  a  bitter  tongue, 
she  feared  nothing  but  public  opinion.  The  good 
esteem  of  her  neighbours  was  absolutely  necessary  to 
her;  to  get  it  she  would  school  her  temper  and  curb 
her  speech  until  she  must  have  suffered  the  tortures 
of  the  damned.  And  she  had  the  knack  of  turning 
her  sufferings  into  virtues,  as  so  many  women  have 
it.  She  always  got  Percival's  pity  and  had  kept  his 
love  by  these  means.  As  her  daughter  Vicky  said, 
"Mother  gets  herself  into  a  hole  and  then  looks  like 
an  Early  Christian."  Her  daughters  judged  her  far 
more  shrewdly  and  with  less  ruth  than  her  husband. 
Philippa  was  in  her  confidence,  and  gave  her  the 
most  sympathy;  but  Melusine  was  her  favourite, 
because  she  was  so  lovely  and  so  refined.  Philippa 
spoke  her  comforts;  Melusine  looked  or  sighed  them 
forth.  Grace  was  in  every  long  line  and  gentle  curve 
of  this  pensive  beauty;  her  eyes  spoke  her  fair  mind, 
but  otherwise  she  had  little  conversation.  She 
danced,  I  have  said,  exquisitely,  and  yet  she  sat  out 
a  great  deal.  She  had  many  admirers,  "quite  a 
court,"  her  fond  mother  declared. 

Hawise,  at  this  time,  stood  very  high  in  her  re- 
spect, for  Hawise  was  doing  very  well  for  herself. 
She  was  exceedingly  handsome  also,  with  her  mother's 


8  OPEN  COUNTRY 

high  colouring  and  large  blue  eyes;  she  bade  fair, 
indeed,  to  emulate  her  mother's  amplitude  of  charm 
in  other  ways.  There  were  those  who  called  Hawise 
Percival  "Fatty."  Her  neck  and  bust  were  superb, 
but  her  arms  were  certainly  too  big.  She  was  not 
very  tall  either.  Her  temperament  was  placid;  she 
could  always  be  relied  upon  for  a  comfortable  opin- 
ion, and  nearly  always  agreed  with  you.  By  Sir 
George's  wish  she  took  daily  horse-exercise  with  a 
groom,  and  she  did  her  best  to  please  him  by  assuming 
an  interest  in  lawn-tennis  and  golf  which  she  was  far 
from  possessing.  Naturally,  she  was  inert.  Her 
mother  used  to  warn  her  against  it — a  "besetting 
sin."  Her  father  could  not  value  her  judgment  so 
much  as  that  of  Philippa;  but  Philippa  was  married 
and  in  Bryanston  Square,  and  he  found  Hawise's 
infinitely  more  comfortable.  He  had  many  a  cosy 
talk  with  her  over  his  cigar  before  dinner,  and  used 
to  say  of  her  apple-cheeks  that  they  were  as  good  as 
a  day  in  the  country. 

Victoria,  Vicky  as  she  always  was,  comes  up  next 
for  estimation,  a  merry  girl,  very  pretty,  not  shrewish 
as  yet,  though  that  was  her  danger.  Her  eyes,  of  the 
family  blue,  shone  black  in  the  dusk,  like  black  dia- 
monds, or  sapphires  so  dark  as  to  be  black.  Her 
nose  was  retrousse  and  piquant ;  her  lips  smiled ;  she 
could  be  saucy.  She  was  not  really  so  flippant  as 
she  seemed,  for  it  was  innocence  which  prompted  her 
to  impossible  utterances,  and  gave  her  hearers  many  a 
panging  ten  minutes.  She  had  a  bright,  inconsequent 
way  of  probing  you  to  the  depths  which  you  might 


A  RESPECTABLE  FAMILY  9 

find  charming,  or  might  not.  It  depended  very  much 
upon  who  was  there  also.  There  was  a  Fraiilein 
Winkiewicz  attached  to  the  household,  a  grim  Hun- 
garian lady  of  great  reminiscences.  Never  shall  I  for- 
get what  I  suffered  at  a  tea-party — a  young  people's 
tea-party,  of  course — when  Vicky  asked  her  what  it 
felt  like  to  be  kissed  by  a  man, — ''Not  an  uncle,  you 
know,  or  a  cousin,  or  anybody  of  that  kind,  but  a 
strange  man,  who  takes  you  in  his  arms  and  says, 
Darling,  you  are  all  the  world  to  me,  and  kisses  you. 
That  sort,  you  know."  This  was  terrible.  Vicky, 
it  should  be  added,  was  always  very  much  interested 
in  such  questions  and  spared  neither  age  nor  sex  in 
her  pursuit  of  information.  She  gathered,  I  fancy, 
a  great  deal  of  experience  one  way  and  another  be- 
fore she  finally  accepted  the  hand  and  heart  of  Cap- 
tain Sinclair.  That,  however,  was  not  yet.  That 
must  have  been  in  '96,  and  we  are  now  in  the  early 
days  of  '94. 

Sanchia,  the  youngest  of  these  well-endowed  girls, 
was  at  this  time  as  nearly  without  sex  as  a  girl  of 
twenty  may  be.  Her  mother  had  kept  her  back  de- 
liberately, but  the  child  must  in  any  case  have  ri- 
pened slowly.  I  think  her  mind  developed  faster 
than  her  body.  She — at  twenty — saw  nothing  of 
love,  and  thought  nothing.  It  may  be  that  she  ac- 
cepted it,  like  the  budding  of  the  trees,  as  a  fact  of 
life,  which  came  in  its  season.  It  interested  her  not 
at  all;  and  this  made  at  once  her  distinction,  her 
charm,  and  her  danger.  For  she  shared  to  the  full 
the  franchise  of  her  remarkable  family,  and  was 


lo  OPEN  COUNTRY 

never  ashamed  of  acting  as  she  felt  or  saying  what 
she  thought.  Difl&cult  she  found  it,  always,  to  speak ; 
but  it  was  not  in  self-consciousness  that  the  diflSiculty 
lay.  If  she  liked  a  person,  or  was  touched  by  some- 
thing said,  she  would  give  up  her  hand;  except  that 
she  had  no  motions  that  way,  it  might  as  well  have 
been  her  cheek.  She  was  at  once  confiding  and 
reserved,  at  once  extraordinarily  frank  and  extraor- 
dinarily reticent  (for  so  young  a  girl) ;  but  her  reser- 
vations seemed  often  absurd  and  her  confidences 
astounding  to  bewildered  youth  of  my  sex.  Bewil- 
dered youth,  agog  for  captures,  panted  after  her, 
baffled,  faint,  yet  pursuing.  At  one  hour  blessed 
beyond  his  hopes,  at  another  chilled  far  beyond  his 
assured  deserts,  the  marvel  is  that  she  went  her  even 
way,  untouched  and  unconscious.  But  she  did — 
with  a  devastating  friendliness  which  was  to  beguile 
a  man  in  every  way  worthy  of  her  affections,  and 
tumble  her  at  last  into  the  arms  of  another  of  a  very 
different  stamp.  That  is  the  theme  to  which  I  pro- 
pose to  devote  these  pages,  and  it  ought  to  be  a 
curious  study. 

Meantime,  we  have  her  now,  slim  and  thoughtful, 
rather  pale,  with  something  still  of  the  childish 
roundness  of  face  which  she  had  worn  when  her 
father,  eight  years  younger,  could  cuddle  her  to  his 
comfortable  ribs,  and  call  her  his  saucy  Sancic,  and  his 
love-apple.  Her  eyes  were  very  large  and  extremely 
lovely — blue-grey  whites,  black-ringed  iris,  large  and 
palpitating  pupils,  a  deep  and  serious  gaze.  She 
developed  later — according  to  me — into  the  Beauty 


A  RESPECTABLE  FAMILY  n 

of  the  Family,  though  she  was  always  pale.  Un- 
deniably she  was  her  father's  beloved.  He  respected 
Hawise,  admired  Melusine  from  afar,  and  was  afraid 
of  sparkling  Vicky's  audacious  criticism.  But  to  his 
Sancie  he  could  unfold  his  simple  soul.  She  alone 
bore  with  his  little  jokes:  his  "A  Miss  is  as  good  as  a 
mile,  hey?  And  here  am  I,  with  five  Misses!  Quite 
a  long  walk  for  an  elderly  gentleman."  It  was  San- 
chia  also  who,  to  please  him,  egged  him  on,  on 
Michaelmas  Day,  to  repeat  his  famous  verse: 

Of  all  fowls  in  the  poultry-yard 
The  goose  must  be  preferred ; 
There's  such  a  deal  of  nutriment 
In  that  weak-minded  bird. 

Laugh  she  could  not — she  laughed  rarely ;  but  it  was 
sweet  to  him  to  catch  the  answering  beam  from  her 
eyes,  and  her  tender  smile  that  met  midway  with  his 
and  blew  a  kiss  to  it. 

She  used  to  sit  with  him  in  the  smoking-room — on 
his  knee  or  on  the  arm  of  his  chair — while  he  took  his 
nightcap  of  whisky-and-water  and  his  last  cigar. 
She  said  little ;  but  often  he  told  her  of  the  doings  at 
the  office,  or  what  old  Bob  Etherington  said,  or  what 
old  Jack  Burmester.  He  had  more  household  cares 
for  her  ear  than  ever  he  had  for  his  wife.  In  her  thin 
hands,  upon  her  virgin  lap,  lay  the  destinies  of  many 
a  sharp  young  clerk.  His  heart  glowed  to  feel  her 
charity,  his  head  bowed  to  her  cool  judgment.  And 
when  she  had  kissed  his  forehead  and  gone  to  bed, 
often  and  often  he  would  stand  upright  in  the  middle 


12  OPEN  COUNTRY 

of  the  room,  cigar  in  one  hand  and  toddy  in  the 
other,  and  shut  his  eyes  and  pray  with  all  his  might, 
''God  bless  my  Sancie!  God  bless  my  girl!  And 
send  her  happy,  for  Christ's  sake.  Amen." 

In  such  uncouth  ways  the  good  man  bared  him- 
self before  his  gods. 

It  is  only  necessary  to  add  to  this  chapter  of  par- 
ticulars the  following,  which  will  place  us  squarely 
at  the  opening  of  1894.  It  was  decided  that  Hawise 
was  to  be  married  in  June  of  this  year,  and  that 
Sanchia  could  accept  the  invitation  of  an  old  Lady 
Mauleverer  to  spend  some  earlier  weeks  at  Gorston, 
her  seat  in  the  Eastern  Midlands.  Sanchia  had  been 
to  school,  it  seems,  with  Grace  Mauleverer,  who  was 
her  ladyship's  granddaughter,  and  now  Mrs.  Per- 
cival  felt  that  she  was  reaping  the  fruits  of  a  diligent 
sowing.  Lady  Pinwell  was  a  good  name  for  one 
daughter  to  bear;  Lady  Mauleverer  a  good  name 
for  the  friend  of  another.  The  malicious  say  that 
she  kept  a  record  of  titled  acquaintances  which  now 
contained  two  baronets,  a  baronet's  brother,  and  a 
baronet's  widow.  Vicky's  inference,  rather,  was 
that  Mamma  collected  baronets.  And  not  city  titles 
either.  Sir  George  Pinwell  was  county,  and  a  crea- 
tion of  Charles  II.  Lady  Mauleverer's  husband, 
the  late  Sir  Giles,  had  been  of  a  still  older  origin. 
He  claimed  James  I.;  l)ut  that  had  been  disputed. 
There  had  been  a  Mauleverer  creation  by  that  sov- 
ereign, but  it  expired  with  the  patentee's  son.  Charles 
I.  revived  it  in  the  person  of  a  brother  of  the  first 


A  RESPECTABLE  FAMILY 


13 


baronet's.  The  other  name  on  her  list — that  of  Sir 
Carnaby  Hodges — was  a  George  III.  title.  The 
family  seat  was  in  Gloucestershire,  and  was  unfor- 
tunately let — to  a  pork-butcher  of  Cheltenham.  Sir 
Carnaby,  meantime,  lived  in  lodgings  in  Brighton. 
He  had  been  a  client  of  Septimus  Tompsett-King's 
for  many  years.  The  baronet's  brother  was  Gerald 
Scales,  and  most  devoted  to  Melusine.  Nothing  could 
be  more  chivalrous  than  his  behaviour.  His  way  of 
looking  at  her  across  a  room  reminded  Mrs.  Percival 
of  the  Marquis  of  Montrose.     I  don't  know  why. 

Let  us  conceive  then  this  prosperous  family  in 
the  spring  of  the  year,  when  lilacs  are  a-flower  in  the 
London  squares,  and  the  London  skies  are  washed 
pure  every  night  by  wholesome  showers.  In  April 
every  Londoner  takes  thought  for  the  morrow — 
since  the  morrow  is  May.  Mr.  Percival  therefore 
will  bethink  him  of  his  white  hat,  which  must  be 
cleaned  against  next  month,  and  Mrs.  Percival  of 
drawing-rooms.  Philippa  Tompsett-King  will  have 
plans  for  an  Easter  in  Rome,  Hawise  for  her  trousseau. 
Melusine  and  Vicky  ride  daily  in  the  park  with  Mr. 
Gerald  Scales  and  others.  About  Sanchia's  budding 
breast  the  maid  now  pins  breadths  of  white,  that  she 
may  be  furnished  with  frocks  for  Gorston.  In  Mrs. 
Percival's  phrase,  "She  may  meet  anybody  there." 
The  child  must  be  presentable.  She  must  look  her 
quality.  Meantime  in  a  rock-strewn  glen,  far  from 
the  Marble  Arch,  the  three  Women,  daughters  of 
Night,  sit  steadfast  at  their  task. 


CHAPTER  II 

INTRODUCES   THE  GENTLEMAN  GIPSY 

John  Maxwell  Senhouse,  at  the  age  of  thirty, 
had  travelled  much  of  the  habitable  globe  without 
losing  his  zest  for  adventure.  He  was  now  in 
England,  with  no  immediate  prospect  of  leaving 
it;  yet  every  morning  he  arose,  and  fronted  the 
day  with  heart-beats.  That  announces  a  habit  of 
mind  so  enviable  as  to  be  extraordinary;  and  such 
indeed  the  man  was.  He  would  be  extraordinary 
to-day,  was  still  more  so  in  1894,  which  is  the  date 
at  which  we  are  here  and  now;  in  1884,  when  he 
began  to  live  the  life  which  suited  him,  he  was  most 
extraordinary. 

He  was  the  only  man  I  ever  knew  who  was  able 
to  behold  in  the  rising  of  the  sun  a  daily  miracle. 
Literally,  I  have  seen  him  astounded,  spell-bound 
before  that  filling  up  of  the  sky  with  almost  intoler- 
able brightness,  and  that  slow  entrance  of  the  King 
of  Life  into  the  great  dome,  swept,  garnished,  and 
made  pure  for  his  habitation.  This  simplicity  of 
mind  in  Mr.  Senhouse  was  of  a  piece  with  his  ex- 
treme simplicity  of  habit.  He  had  the  knack  of 
reducing  complexity  into  its  elements,  of  drawing 
order  out  of  chaos.     In  his  ways  and  words  he  be- 

14 


THE  GENTLEMAN  GIPSY 


IS 


trayed  himself — very  nearly  primitive  man;  prim- 
itive man,  let  us  say,  who  has  learnt  the  comfort  of 
washing  himself,  and  has  got  so  far  into  civilisa- 
tion as  to  be  able  to  criticise  those  who  don't  wash. 
He  was,  as  a  fact,  a  keener  critic  than  you  would 
have  supposed,  and  his  absorbed  eyes,  which  fol- 
lowed so  often  his  busy  hands,  took  in  you  and 
your  little  tricks  and  shifts  together  with  a  great 
deal  that  was  vastly  more  beautiful  and  curious — 
and  settled  for  you,  off-hand,  your  place  in  the 
scheme  of  things.  He  resolved  you,  in  fact,  into 
your  elements.  Very  unpleasant  elements,  too, 
they  seemed  to  be  when,  as  might  well  happen,  he 
exhibited  them  to  you,  with  a  cheerful  candour 
which  turned  you  cold,  and  seemed  to  have  settled 
it  with  the  Supreme  Arbiter  that  his  analysis  was 
unimpeachable.  Mostly  you  were  driven  to  see 
that  it  was. 

He  had  theories  about  everything  in  nature  and 
society,  and  practised  more  of  them  than  you  would 
have  thought  possible.  There  was  nothing,  he 
said,  in  the  civilised  world — to  call  it  so  for  the  con- 
venience of  the  moment — which  he  was  not  able 
to  go  without*;  and  it  is  remarkable,  really  remark- 
able, how  closely  he  could  justify  that  assertion. 
A  house,  a  bed,  a  coat,  a  shirt,  money,  tobacco,  a 
dinner,  a  Bible.  He  did  without  most  of  these 
habitually,  and  any  one  of  them  at  a  pinch  of  a  week 
or  so.  I  have  known  him  since  '82  or  thereabouts, 
and  can  swear  that  he  has  never  had  a  roof  of  his 

*  He  preferred,  for  instance,  dry  sand  to  soap. 


i6  OPEN  COUNTRY 

own  over  his  head.  He  does  not  need  a  bed,  never 
wears  a  coat  if  he  can  help  it;  and  as  for  money,  the 
outside  that  it  costs  him  to  live  is  five  shillings  a 
week,  and  the  utmost  that  he  cares  to  make  by  his 
many  arts  is  a  hundred  a  year.  What  is  over  from 
the  bare  cost  of  living  he  spends  in  plants.  Gar- 
dening is  his  passion,  but  he  has  no  garden.  His 
passion  is  to  turn  all  wild  England  into  a  garden. 
To  that  he  has  devoted  himself  day  and  night. 
A  few  years  ago  he  was  bribed  into  Germany  to 
pursue  his  hobby  there.  He  received — or  rather  he 
was  promised — a  handsome  stipend.  He  did  not, 
as  a  matter  of  fact,  receive  it  so,  but  it  was  held 
over  for  him  till  the  end  of  the  term  of  years,  and 
handed  to  him  in  a  lump.  He  returned  it  to  the 
Grand  Ducal  ofhcer,  much  to  that  worthy's  con- 
fusion.    But  that  doesn't  come  in  here  at  all. 

The  pages  which  follow,  and  the  tale  which  they 
unfold,  are  the  work  of  this  interesting  fellow,  and, 
in  a  sense,  the  property  of  a  lady  already  mentioned. 
They  both  live  at  this  hour,  and  for  that  reason  their 
names  are  not  warrantable.  John  Maxwell  Sen- 
house,  Sanchia-Josepha  Percival — that  is  as  near 
to  their  names  as  I  care  to  go.  With  this  provision, 
I  have  the  consent  of  both  parties  to  the  publica- 
tion of  letters  and  this  commentary  upon  them 
which  do  them  no  discredit,  and  do  not  reveal  an 
intimacy  of  which  they  have  any  reason  to  be 
ashamed.  As  to  the  story  involved  in  their  relations, 
and  how  far  it  was  conditioned  by  them — that  is 
another  affair,  to  be  judged  by  reader  and  compiler 


THE   GENTLEMAN   GIPSY  17 

on  the  merits.  It  is  unnecessary,  perhaps,  to  add 
that  while  the  writer  has  my  sympathy,  I  by  no 
means  share  all  his  opinions  with  him,  and  that  I 
have  taken  upon  myself  the  responsibility  of  select- 
ing what,  out  of  his  letters,  I  would  print.  The 
correspondence  as  a  whole  is  massive;  some  of  it 
is  occasional;  some  relates  to  private  affairs,  and 
some  to  the  private  affairs  of  other  people.  There 
is  a  good  deal  of  freedom  used  in  dealing  with  the 
names  and  deeds  of  persons  much  in  the  world's 
eye.  To  publish  names  and  comments  together 
might  be  scandalous;  either  without  the  other 
would  be  stupid.  So  also  with  the  tale — such  tale 
as  lay  in  the  relations  of  the  eloquent,  profuse,  and 
random  writer  of  these  letters  with  Miss  Sanchia 
Percival — I  have  no  more,  I  believe,  allowed  my 
selection  to  interfere  with  its  course  than  I  could 
persuade  it  to  sway  its  fortunes.  It  is  a  good  tale, 
as  all  true  tales  are,  and  may  be  read  independently 
of  any  correspondence.  The  reader  who  chooses 
may  skip  the  whole  budget,  and  form  his  opinion 
of  the  persons  here  treated,  as  he  should,  by  their 
actions,  not  by  their  words. 

By  way  of  introduction,  however,  to  such  tale 
as  there  is,  something  must  be  said  before  it  and 
the  letters  within  it  can  be  left  to  speak  for  them- 
selves. Their  writer,  when  I  knew  him  first  (red- 
hot  and  sizzling  with  theory),  was  the  most  cheerful 
revolutionary  you  could  conceive  of.  Anarchism — 
for  he  signed  himself  Anarchist — on  his  showing, 
was  the  best  joke  in  the  world.     He  would  have 


i8  OPEN  COUNTRY 

dethroned  kings  and  obliterated  their  dynasties  as 
Isaac  Walton  would  have  had  you  impale  worms 
on  your  hooks,  with  the  same  tender  nicety.  "My 
dear  old  chap,"  one  might  hear  him  say  to  a  doomed 
monarch,  ''we've  had  a  splendid  time;  but  a  game's 
a  game,  and  really  yours  is  up.  You  perish  for  the 
good  of  your  so-called  people,  you  know;  upon  my 
honour,  it's  all  right.  Now  this  bomb  is  beautifully 
timed.  It'll  be  over  before  you  can  say  knife. 
Just  you  see." 

That  was  the  sort  of  impression  he  made  upon 
one  in  those  early  days;  he  was  frightfully  reason- 
able and  perfectly  ridiculous.  He  was  then  at 
Cambridge,  King's  his  college,  embroiled  for  ever 
w^ith  the  dons — heading  his  examination  papers, 
*'  Down  with  the  bourgeois ! "  or, ''  Death  to  tyrants ! "  * 
— and  yet  for  ever  in  their  houses.  It  was  the 
women  who  would  have  him  there;  his  manner 
with  women  was  perfect.  He  put  them  on  his  own 
level,  to  begin  with,  and  his  level  was  high.  He 
neither  flattered  nor  bullied,  never  told  fibs,  nor 
paid  compliments,  nor  posed  for  what  he  was  not; 
nor,  so  far  as  I  can  learn,  did  he  ever  make  love. 
Flirtation  and  he  were  contradictories,  for,  ridicu- 
lously as  he  would  put  things,  and  do  them,  the  most 
ridiculous  part  of  his  performance  was  always  that 
he  was  perfectly  serious.  He  was  all  for  liberty 
and  equality,  and  very  likely  was  waiting  for  the 
ladies  to  begin.  He  would  have  seen  no  reason 
whatever  against  that;   and  I  can  imagine  him  dis- 

»This  he  used  to  call  "sowing  the  seed." 


THE  GENTLEMAN  GIPSY  19 

cussing  a  tender  proposal  from  one  of  them  with 
the  most  devastating  candour,  lying  on  the  hearth- 
rug (his  favourite  place  in  the  room)  with  his  face 
between  his  thin  hands,  and  his  black  eyes  glossy 
with  mystery.  He  was  extraordinarily  popular; 
and  when  he  was  sent  down  for  some  outrageous 
act  or  another — I  forget  exactly  what  it  was,  but 
fancy  it  had  something  flagrant  to  do  with  the 
Athanasian  Creed — he  spent  the  time  of  rustication 
actually  in  Cambridge,  in  the  house  of  a  Fellow  of 
his  college,  as  everybody  knew  perfectly  well.  They 
dug  a  canoe  out  of  a  tree-trunk,  the  queer  pair  of  them, 
and  navigated  the  Cam  from  Ashwell  to  Littleport. 

He  was  a  great  reader  but  a  fitful,  an  excellent 
Grecian,  and  left  the  University  without  attempting 
his  degree.  He  had  come,  he  said,  to  consider 
the  course  of  study  prescribed  an  absurdity,  and 
the  reward  held  out  to  be  a  foppery  unworthy  of 
a  serious  man's  time.  Such  a  man,  with  that  per- 
suasive, irresistible  smile  of  his,  he  solemnly  pro- 
claimed himself  in  a  letter  to  the  Vice-Chancellor — 
or  with  what  he  fully  intended  to  be  solemnity.  But 
his  manner  of  leaving  Cambridge  was  so  character- 
istic that  I  cannot  omit  it,  though  I  study  to  be  brief. 

It  was  simplicity  itself.  On  a  certain  May 
morning  in  the  year  1885  he  rose  as  usual,  dressed 
as  usual  in  grey  flannel  trousers,  white  sweater, 
and  pair  of  nailed  boots;  breakfasted  as  usual 
upon  an  egg  and  some  coffee,  and  walked  out  of 
his  rooms,  out  of  his  college,  out  of  Cambridge, 
never  to  return. 


20  OPEN  COUNTRY 

This  was  literally  the  manner  of  his  going.  The 
only  thing  he  took  away  with  him,  except  the  clothes 
he  stood  in,  was  a  holly  stick.  He  never  wore  a 
hat,  and  his  bedmaker  found  all  his  loose  change — 
gold,  silver,  and  copper — lying  at  random  on  his 
dressing-table,  and  his  cheque-book  in  a  drawer. 
The  rest  of  his  belongings,  which  were  ordinary, 
neither  more  necessary  nor  less  various  than  the 
common  run — clothes,  furniture,  books,  pipes,  cor- 
respondence, including  the  morning's  post,  which,  I 
am  told,  had  not  even  been  opened — he  left  every- 
thing where  it  was,  dropped  it  just  then  and  there, 
and  vanished.  Nor  was  anything  heard  of  him  in 
England  for  two  years,  after  a  letter  received  by  his 
father,  which  had  the  postmark  "Cracow"  and  the 
date  "  14th  July,"  in  which  he  said  that  he  had 
come  to  the  sudden  conviction  of  waste  of  time, 
money,  and  opportunity,  and  must  be  excused  from 
indulging  either  the  parental  partiality  or  his  own 
proneness  to  luxury  any  longer.  He  had  chosen 
to  come  to  Poland,  he  said,  because  nobody  could 
tell  him  anything  about  it  except  that  it  was,  on  the 
whole,  the  most  oppressed  country  in  Europe.  He 
was  uncertain  of  his  return,  and  begged  to  assure 
his  correspondent  that  he  was  well,  happy,  self- 
supporting,  and  his  affectionate  Jack. 

His  adventures  in  Poland,  which  led  him  cer- 
tainly and  expeditiously  to  Siberia,  are  no  concern 
of  ours  just  now.  He  conspired,  I  believe,  in  Latin, 
since  he  had  not  the  tongue  of  the  country;  but, 
being  overheard  and  more  or  less  understood,  to 


THE   GENTLEMAN  GIPSY  21 

Siberia  he  went,  and  was  there  lost  sight  of  for  a 
year.  How  he  escaped,  whether  by  intervention 
from  home  or  his  own  address,  doesn't  now  matter. 
I  know  that  he  was  in  England  in  1887,  for  I  met 
him  in  the  autumn  of  that  year  in  his  father's  house 
in  the  Midlands,  irredeemably  enthusiastic  in  the 
cause  of  absolute  liberty,  in  touch  with  Tolstoy,  Kro- 
potkin,  Stepniak,  and  half  the  dreamers  of  Europe; 
a  confinned  wanderer,  a  sojourner  in  tents ;  as  much 
artist,  scribbler,  desultory  scholar  as  ever,  but  with 
a  new  taste,  which  he  had  acquired  in  his  exile 
from  a  fellow-conscript,  a  taste  for  botany,  which 
became  later  on  the  ruling  passion  of  his  life.  He 
was  more  charming  and  more  ridiculous  than  ever, 
and,  mentally,  entirely  naked  and  entirely  un- 
ashamed. To  please  his  father — with  whom  he 
was  on  the  best  of  terms — he  went  into  the  counting- 
house  at  Dingeley  for  six  months;  but  in  the  spring 
of  '88  he  was  off  again,  none  knew  whither,  though 
it  was  discovered  afterwards  to  have  been  the 
Atlas,  and  after  that  never  settled  down  in  the 
haunts  of  civilised  man  for  more  than  a  few  weeks 
at  a  time. 

What  could  be  said  or  done  to  him?  He  was 
of  full  age,  took  nothing  of  his  father's  store,  kept 
himself  entirely  to  his  own  satisfaction  on  his  paint- 
ing and  journalism.  Of  the  former  I  am  not  quali- 
fied to  speak.  It  was  a  very  impressionistic,  highly 
poetical  rendering  of  atmosphere  and  colour.  If 
Corot  was  not  his  master  in  the  art,  I  am  a  dunce. 
As  to  the  other,  he  wrote  pretty  constantly  for  wild 


22  OPEN  COUNTRY 

newspapers  of  which  you  and  I  hear  nothing — 
Dawn,  The  Fiery  Cross,  The  Intransigeant,  The 
International — and  now  and  then  had  a  poem  in 
The  Speaker,  and  now  and  then  an  article  in  a  re- 
view. To  supply  his  wants,  which  were  simple, 
he  lived  in  a  tent  of  his  own  stitching,  which  he  car- 
ried about  in  a  tilt-cart,  drawn  by  a  lean  horse, 
well  called  Rosinante.  Everything  he  owned  was 
in  this  cart;  and  he  seldom  stayed  in  one  place  for 
more  than  a  week.  Periodically  he  would  vanish, 
as  the  mood  took  him,  and  perhaps  be  heard  of 
in  California,  Colorado,  the  Caucasus,  or  Cash- 
mere; but  as  he  grew  older  and  his  passion  for 
naturalising  foreign  plants  grew  with  him,  he  con- 
fined himself  more  within  the  limits  of  our  seas; 
and  his  knowledge  of  England's  recesses  must 
have  equalled  Cobbett's  or  Borrow's.  He  was  hail- 
fellow  with  all  the  gipsies,  tinkers,  horse-stealers, 
and  rascaille  on  the  road,  and  with  most  of  the 
tramps.  They  all  liked  him  consumedly,  all  trusted 
him,  but  all  called  him  Mr.  John,  or  even  Mr. 
Senhouse.  That  was  odd,  because  I  am  certain 
he  did  not  expect  it  of  them. 

Thus  wandering,  perpetually  busy  and  inordi- 
nately happy,  one  used  to  meet  him  in  chance  angles 
and  coigns  of  our  islands,  and  more  occasionally 
still  in  or  near  the  house  of  a  friend:  seldom  in  it, 
for  he  nearly  always  begged  leave  to  pitch  his  tent 
in  park  or  paddock,  whence  to  come  and  go  as  he 
pleased.  It  was  during  one  of  these  temporary  re- 
turns to  civilisation,  as  we  call  it  (and  how  he  used 


THE  GENTLEMAN  GIPSY 


23 


to  declaim  upon  that!),  that  he  became  acquainted 
with  Sanchia  Percival.     It  was  in  1894. 

Of  Miss  Percival  I  have  said  something  already. 
It  will  be  seen  that  Senhouse's  acquaintance  with 
her  was  in  the  middle  period,  that  of  her  dawn, 
when,  as  it  were,  her  glory-to-be  was  palely  shad- 
owed forth  from  her.  It  lay  brooding  in  her  eyes, 
was  to  be  discovered,  like  a  halo,  about  her  broad 
brows.  She  was  getting  Greek,  but  wasn't  Greek 
yet:  a  Greek  baby,  perhaps,  a  goddess  still  at  the 
breast.  Her  chin  had  already  that  roundness 
which  is  the  type's,  but  her  mouth  was  not  the 
lovely  feature  it  afterwards  became.  It  still  had 
a  pathetic  droop;  it  was  tremulous,  very  expressive 
of  doubt.  All  this  I  learned  afterwards  from  my 
friend  on  one  or  other  of  the  rare  occasions  when  he 
could  be  led  on  to  talk  about  her.  He  showed  me, 
in  fact,  a  curious  photograph,  of  which  more  in  its 
place.     She  hit  him  hard,  I  know. 

They  met,  as  you  will  see,  in  the  country.  She 
went  to  stay  with  old  Lady  Mauleverer;  he  came 
a  few  days  later  to  a  neighbour's  house,  that  of 
Roger  Chamock,  the  Liberal  Member  for  Graseby; 
that  is  to  say,  he  was  allowed  to  be  in  Charnock's 
park,  encamped  there,  dining  at  the  house  when- 
ever it  suited  his  whim,  but  otherwise  free  as  air. 
Charnock  and  he  had  been  at  Rugby  together, 
though  the  Member  had  been  in  the  Sixth  and  the 
tramp  his  fag.  But  Charnock  had  been  kind,  and 
a  friendship  had  arisen  and  persisted.  The  rebel 
was  allowed  to  do  as  he  liked  up  at  Bill  Hill. 


24  OPEN  COUNTRY 

There  was  much  intercourse  between  Gorston 
Park,  the  Mauleverer  stronghold,  and  Bill  Hill, 
which  was  Charnock's.  Our  man,  whose  high 
spirits  were  not  to  be  denied  by  any  one  who  came 
within  a  mile  of  them,  had  had  them  all  under  his 
spell  from  the  first.  Charnock's  boys  adored  him, 
followed  him  about  like  a  couple  of  spaniels.  Even 
Lady  Mauleverer,  who  knew  him  of  old,  called  him 
a  ''ridiculous  creature,"  which,  for  her,  was  a  term 
of  high  endearment.  He  was  a  noticeable  fellow, 
unlike  anybody  else,  very  thin,  very  dark,  saturnine, 
looking  taller  than  he  really  was.  There  was  some- 
thing elusive  about  him,  which  may  have  been  the 
effect  of  his  piercing  black  eyes  or  of  his  furtive 
smile.  You  could  never  tell  whether  he  was  chuck- 
ling at  you  or  with  you ;  he  rarely  laughed  outright. 
He  had  the  look  of  a  wild  animal  which  seems 
friendly  and  assured,  but  is  ready  at  any  instant 
to  dart  into  hiding.  They  used  to  call  him  the 
Faun,  and  tease  to  be  shown  his  ears.  Bill  Bote- 
tort  declared  that  he  wore  his  hair  long  and  let  it 
tumble  about  his  brows  to  hide  a  fine  pair  of  horns. 
He  was  a  wonderful  talker;  to  see  his  sallow  face 
light  up  under  the  glow  of  his  thought  was  to  feel 
as  if  the  sun  had  burst  through  a  great  cloud.  Like 
all  good  talkers,  he  had  fits  of  long  and  most 
eloquent  speechlessness.  He  would  sit  then  with 
his  chin  on  his  knees  and  bony  hands  clasped  over 
his  shins,  and  look  like  a  dead  Viking  crouched  in 
his  cairn,  vacant-eyed,  fixed,  astare — a  silence,  I 
assure  you,  that  could  be  felt.     Add  his  strange, 


THE  GENTLEMAN  GIPSY  25 

nocturnal  prowUngs,  during  which  he  was  supposed 
to  hold  mysterious  communion  with  the  creatures 
of  darkness — bats,  owls,  badgers,  otters,  foxes — 
and  talk  secrets  with  the  plants,  and  you  may  guess 
how  he  might  have  struck  the  imagination  of  young 
Miss  Sanchia-Josepha,  a  girl  on  the  threshold  of 
womanhood,  in  the  throes  of  her  power  to  come. 
At  the  end  of  a  week,  it  will  be  related,  they  were 
fast  allies,  at  the  end  of  a  fortnight  inseparable 
companions,  sketching  together  every  day,  and  he 
teaching  her  to  read  Greek  out  of  the  Anthology. 
At  the  end  of  three  weeks  they  were  eternal  friends, 
and  swore  it  to  each  other,  no  doubt,  with  the  ap- 
propriate ritual.  That  is  where  their  correspondence 
begins,  at  the  end  of  that  third  week.  I  only  have 
his  side  of  it — he  destroyed  her  letters  as  they  came — 
and  can  only  give  selections,  of  course.  It  lasted 
intensely  for  two  years,  with  occasional  breaks  when 
they  saw  each  other,  and  was  most  voluminous. 
Then  it  stopped,  for  reasons  which  are  to  be  made 
plain,  and  which,  I  shall  add  on  my  own  account, 
do  the  writers  credit.  A  relationship  had  developed 
which  was  not,  and  could  hardly  be  again,  the  old 
one.  There  was  a  third  party  intervening — that 
also.  The  man  broke  it,  the  young  woman  accepted 
his  decision.  They  separated  for  many  years,  each 
going  a  several  way. 
Now — after  so  much  preamble — we  can  get  on. 


CHAPTER  III 

OF  COMMERCE  WITH  A  DRYAD  BY  A  POOL 

On  a  day  in  late  April  Mr.  Senhouse  was  on  his 
way  to  Graseby  in  the  Eastern  Midlands,  on  a  visit 
to  his  friend  the  Liberal  Member  for  that  division 
of  the  country,  and  was  not  far  from  his  journey's 
end.  He  had  in  fact  entered  the  precincts  of  Churn 
Forest,  a  noble  belt  of  woodland  incorporated  long 
ago  (in  the  fine  and  free  manner  of  our  forefathers) 
into  the  estates  of  about  three  great  men.  A  Mau- 
leverer  had  been  one,  and  the  predecessor  in  title 
of  Chamock,  M.P.,  another.  One  side  of  the  road 
was  the  Gorston  property,  the  other  Bill  Hill;  tree- 
ful  forest  all  of  it,  showing  deep  and  quiet  recesses 
of  beech  and  bracken,  interspersed  by  glades  of  oak 
saplings,  between  whose  tapering  columns  the  light 
lay  elfin,  and  revealed  to  those  who  had  the  eyes  to 
see  withal  more  inhabitants  of  the  wild  spaces  than 
common  men  may  discern.  Ye  charm'd  resorts  of 
woodfolk!  He  who  traverses  a  forest  with  an  eye 
for  timber,  or  a  moorland  musing  on  building  sites, 
will  tell  you  that  Pan  is  dead  and  the  Nymphs  no 
more.  That  was  not  Mr.  Senhousc's  opinion,  who 
had  the  Witch  of  Atlas  by  heart. 

26 


WITH  A  DRYAD  BY  A  POOL  27 

And  Universal  Pan,  'tis  said,  was  there, 

And  though  none  saw  him — through  the  adamant 

Of  the  deep  mountains,  through  the  trackless  air, 

And  through  these  living  spirits,  like  a  want, 

He  past  out  of  his  everlasting  lair, 

Where  the  quick  heart  of  the  old  world  doth  pant.  .  .  . 

He  had  got  so  far  when  he  pulled  up  his  lean  horse 
with  a  slow  tightening  of  the  reins,  and  peered  into 
the  shafted  glade  with  narrowed  eyes.  The  forest 
held  him,  poet  and  painter.  He  saw,  and  lusted  to 
convey.  "I  could  do  it,"  he  said  between  his  teeth. 
*'I  could  do  something  of  it.  It's  sheer  magic — 
but  it  could  be  done.  Corot  would  have  done  it 
— did  do  it.  Damn  it — and  I?"  Then  he  began 
again. 

The  herdsmen  and  the  mountain  maidens  came 
And  the  rude  Kings  of  pastoral  Garamant — 

"Pastoral  Garamant" — oh,  thou  diviner! 

A  lovely  lady,  garmented  in  light 
From  her  own  beauty ! 

"And  what  are  these  oak  shafts  but  garmented  in 
light?  That's  where  the  trouble's  to  be — they  are 
ensphered  in  Hght;  and  I  come  up  with  my  bistres 
and  yellows!  A  fool  with  a  paint-box;  but  here 
goes." 

His  brushes  were  dabbling  in  colour  as  he  grum- 
bled and  stared.  He  worked  with  water  and  a 
block,  drew  in  nothing,  but  slobbed  on  his  tints 
with  quick  precision,  and  muttered  as  he  slobbed. 

The  slender,  pale  stems  ran  back  in  rows  into 


28  OPEN  COUNTRY 

blue  space;  their  tops,  tufted  with  buds,  tinged 
bright  red,  were  printed  upon  the  fleecy  sky — amid- 
ships lay  a  still  pool,  nearly  black  where  water 
showed,  edged  about  with  dead  bracken  and  young 
flags,  and  almost  covered  with  flat  lily  leaves,  with 
here  and  there  a  bud  half-opened — for  the  spring 
of  that  year  had  been  out  of  reason  mild. 

Mr.  Senhouse  worked  diligently  while  his  lean 
horse  cropped  the  herbage;  and  as  he  worked  he 
grumbled.  "I  must  key  up  my  trees,  I  must  key 
up  my  sky.  ^ Dolce  color  d* oriental  saphiro^ — oh, 
heavens,  what  a  blue!    And  the  clouds,  the  clouds! 

Pareva  a  me  che  nube  ne  coprisse 

Lucida,  spessa,  solida  e  pulita, 

Quasi  adamante  che  lo  sol  ferisse.  .  .  . 

Painting's  no  good  for  this  kind  of  thing;  you  must 
have  poetry  .  .  .  'Garmented  in  light,'  eh?"  Then 
he  laughed  outright  at  a  memory — 

"...  And  lumps  neither  alive  nor  dead, 
Dog-headed,  bosom-eyed,  and  bird-footed.  .  .  . 

Oh,  an  immortal  game!"  And  then  he  said  sud- 
denly, ''Hulloa!"  and  then  no  more;  but  held  his 
breath  and  looked,  a  brush  in  his  mouth,  another 
suspended  in  the  air. 

A  young  lady  belted  in  a  white  frock  had  come 
through  the  trees  to  the  edge  of  the  pool.  She  had 
no  hat  on,  and  was  bare-footed.  Intent  upon  her 
thoughts,  she  gazed  deeply  into  the  dark  water,  hold- 
ing her  skirts  up  out  of  the  wet.  It  was  evident  that 
she  was  looking  at  something  in  there  which  she 


WITH  A  DRYAD  BY  A  POOL  29 

had  seen  there  before;  for  Senhouse  noticed  that 
her  eyes  sought  out  at  once  the  object  of  her  search, 
found  it,  and  became  intent.  Besides  that,  he  was 
near  enough  to  see  that  it  was  no  admiration  which 
made  her  gaze  so  nearly.  He  fancied  she  was 
frowning,  that  her  brows  were  contracted,  and  be- 
gan to  wonder  what  on  earth  it  could  be  that  inter- 
ested her  so  much.  There  was  perplexity  to  be 
seen  in  her  face,  hesitation  also;  she  let  her  gown 
drop,  and  meditating,  pinched  her  lower  lip  in  her 
fingers.  She  made  a  charmingly  graceful,  slim 
figure,  herself  so  palely  coloured,  in  that  woodscape 
of  low  tones.  The  sun's  chance  rays  caught  and 
gleamed  in  her  brown  hair — of  which  she  had  quan- 
tities, not  so  tidy  as  it  ought  to  have  been,  gathered 
together,  apparently,  in  one  loose  twist  and  coiled 
to  lie  over  the  nape  of  her  neck.  It  looked  as  if  it 
had  been  caught  up  hastily  out  of  respect  to  the  near- 
ness of  the  high  road.  His  line  from  Shelley  had 
been  apt:  here  was  "a  lovely  lady  garmented  in 
light,"  indeed. 

Senhouse,  thoroughly  interested,  watched  her 
closely,  not  altogether  as  painter  or  poet,  to  delight 
in  her  slender  lines,  but  with  the  simple  curiosity 
of  a  man  who  sees  a  game  played  by  a  player  who 
is  unconscious  of  observation.  He  had  studied 
nature  all  his  life,  and  knew  very  well  that  unless 
you  see  an  animal  when  the  animal  sees  not  you, 
you  don't  see  the  animal  at  all.  The  truth  applies, 
ex  hypothest,  to  men  and  maids.  It  is  the  despair 
of  the  honest-minded  among  us  that  the  presence 


30  OPEN  COUNTRY 

of  one  sex  destroys  the  simplicity  of  the  other,  nine 
times  out  of  ten.  Now  this  girl  was  deep  in  her 
play,  and  he  wouldn't  have  disturbed  her  even  if  he 
could:  it  was  all  much  too.good  to  lose. 

Her  next  action,  however,  gave  him  pause  to 
think.  ''By  Gad,  is  she  going  to  bathe?"  In 
that  case,  he  supposed,  he  must  go,  though  it  would 
then  have  been  further  from  his  wish  than  ever. 
But  no!  There  was  a  third  course.  He  must  stop 
her.  He  knew  the  pool  well,  and  that  it  was  at 
least  twenty  feet  deep  in  leaf-mould.  Either  the 
lilies  would  pull  her  down,  or  she  would  go  down 
by  nature.  The  water  would  be  deadly  cold — 
but  she  couldn't  possibly  be  so  foolhardy  as  that! 

She  had  picked  up  her  skirt  again  and  put  one 
foot  forward  till  it  was  up  to  the  instep  in  water. 
He  had  seen  her  start  at  the  unexpected  cold,  but 
not  withdraw  her  foot.  On  the  contrary,  she  had 
pushed  it  in  to  the  ankle,  and  now  stood  poised  on 
one  leg  stirring  the  free  foot  gently  to  and  fro. 
Presently  she  deliberately  pulled  her  clothes  up 
above  her  knees  and  took  a  step  into  the  pond. 
The  quick  bubbles  foamed  round  her  leg  and  broke 
in  yellow  foam  on  the  water.  At  that  step  only  she 
was  immersed  nearly  to  the  knee. 

This  would  never  do.  Scnhouse,  barefooted  him- 
self (as  he  was  whenever  he  was  alone),  quickly 
descended  from  his  perch  and  ran  through  the  glade. 
He  was  behind  her  before  she  was  aware  of  him. 

*'I  beg  your  pardon,"  he  said,  ''but  pray  don't 
go  in  much  deeper.     I  know  that  pool  well.     It's 


WITH  A  DRYAD   BY  A  POOL  31 

fathomless  in  mud.  That's  why  they  do  so  splen- 
didly, those  things." 

She  had  looked  up  at  him  directly  he  began  to 
speak — had  turned  him  a  slightly  flushed  face — 
and  had  listened  with  perfect  seriousness,  not  at  all 
startled  or  embarrassed.  It  had  not  occurred  to  her 
to  drop  her  skirt.  Her  eyes  had  not  faltered  or 
flickered.  They  were  grave,  questioning,  very  blue 
eyes.  When  he  had  said  what  he  had  to  say,  she 
looked  reflectively  into  the  pool  and  then  returned 
to  his  face. 

"I  wanted  to  puU  that  weed  off,"  she  said.  ''It's 
strangling  them."  She  was  appealing,  it  seemed, 
directly  to  his  reason. 

"Beastly  stuff,  I  know  it  is,"  he  replied,  "but, 
you  see,  it  will  strangle  you  if  you  go  in.  And  that 
wouldn't  do  at  all." 

New  matter,  not  exclusive  of  hers.  She  considered 
this,  with  her  face  once  more  turned  to  the  water. 

"What's  to  be  done  then?"  she  asked  him  by  and 
by. 

Senhouse,  always  very  ready  to  praise  God,  now 
blessed  His  name  for  a  girl  who  was  only  able  to 
think  of  one  thing  at  a  time.  Her  desires  appealed 
to  him,  also,  strongly. 

"I  suppose,"  he  said,  "you  want  to  get  the  weed 
out  badly." 

She  smiled  slowly  and  whimsically,  as  if  she  had 
a  sense  of  humour.  "I  do,"  she  said,  "very  badly. 
I  wanted  to  directly  I  saw  it,  but  I  couldn't  then  be- 
cause there  were  people  with  me." 


32 


OPEN  COUNTRY 


"I'm  people,"  said  Senhouse,  and  made  her  smile 
again. 

"Yes,  but  mine  were  a  different  sort  of  people. 
Besides,  we  had  been  out  to  lunch."  Then  she 
slowly  came  out  of  the  water  and  regarded  her 
blackened  feet  and  legs  with  some  dismay. 

"It  won't  hurt  you  a  bit,"  Senhouse  said.  "It's 
beautiful  stuff — pure  oak-mould.  The  best  in  the 
world." 

She  assured  him  with  a  glance  that  she  didn't 
mind  it;  but  returned  to  the  question  of  the  pond. 
Could  it  or  could  it  not  be  ridded  of  crowsfoot  and 
duckweed?  Senhouse,  bending  his  mind  to  the 
problem,  thought  that  it  could.  "I'll  tell  you  what 
we  could  do,"  he  said,  "we  could  get  at  it  on  my 
bed.  But  we  shall  get  rather  wet.  Will  you  let 
me  do  it  for  you?" 

She  had  been  startled  at  his  proffer  of  his  bed; 
her  eyes  had  opened  very  wide;  but  his  suggestion 
that  he  should  do  it  alone  drove  everything  else 
out  of  her  head.  "Oh,  certainly  not,"  she  told  him. 
"Of  course  I  shall  help  you.  But  it's  awfully  kind 
of  you  to  do  anything.     Did  you  say  your  bed?" 

"I  did  indeed,  and  I  meant  it.     Shall  I  fetch  it?" 

She  was  exceedingly  amused.  It  was  pretty  to 
see  her  dancing  eyes  as  she  dared  him  fetch  his  bed. 

But  he  fetched  it  for  all  that;  a  wooden  trestle- 
bed  on  legs  that  folded  underneath.  "It  will  make 
an  excellent  raft,  I  fancy,"  he  said,  as  he  exhibited 
its  properties — and  saw  her  enchanted. 

They   bickered    a   little   over   ways   and   means. 


WITH  A  DRYAD  BY  A  POOL  33 

She  was  all  for  adventuring  in  the  raft,  and  he 
wouldn't  have  that.  "You'll  go  over,  sure  as  a  gun 
— head  first  into  thirty  feet  of  mud.  Now,  do  be 
reasonable.  After  all,  you  know,  it's  my  bed;  and 
I  suppose  a  man  may  do  what  he  likes  with  his  own 
bed."  She  had  to  admit  that  he  could,  and  then 
compromised.  She  was  to  stand  as  deep  in  water 
as  she  dared  and  drag  the  weed  in  to  shore.  As  a 
reward  she  was  to  be  allowed,  at  the  close  of  the 
job,  to  navigate  the  pool  from  end  to  end  on  the 
raft — alone.  This  was  agreed  to,  and  preparations 
began.  Senhouse  rolled  up  his  flannel  trousers  as 
high  as  they  would  go,  and  pushed  up  the  sleeves  of 
his  sweater.  The  young  lady  produced  pins  from 
somewhere  about  her  person,  and  holding  them  in 
her  mouth,  proceeded  to  bind  her  raiment  about  her 
middle,  and  to  secure  it  there.  Without  a  tremor 
or  visible  flicker  of  self-consciousness  she  revealed 
to  this  chance  acquaintance  as  fine  a  pair  of  legs  as 
anybody  could  have  to  show.  Not  Artemis,  high- 
girt  for  the  chase,  could  have  bared  finer  or  dared 
more.  The  artist  in  our  friend  admired,  and  the 
man  was  stirred.  He  dated  his  subjection  from  that 
moment. 

Thus  accoutred,  or  unaccoutred,  the  pair  set  to 
work;  Senhouse  riskily  in  the  middle  with  a  bill- 
hook and  crooked  stick,  she  thigh-deep  in  the  mud 
with  wifling  arms  and  another  crook  of  his  immediate 
cutting.  In  ten  minutes  they  were  wet  to  the  skin 
and  as  dirty  as  you  please;  but  with  every  soil  and 
splash  she  showed  more  beautiful  to  his  eyes.   These 


34  OPEN  COUNTRY 

contrasts  enhanced  her  glow.  Flushed  and  dis- 
hevelled, exquisitely  disarrayed,  with  her  ardent  eyes 
and  fierce  yet  easy  motions,  she  stood  for  him 
as  the  incarnation  of  all  that  is  keen  and  lovely  in 
youth.  *'A  pard-hke  spirit,  beautiful  and  swift," 
he  thought  of;  and  next,  "She  is  a  portion  of  the 
loveliness  which  once  she  made  more  lovely."  And 
how  she  worked!  As  though  a  seraph  of  the  fire 
was  urging  her  from  within. 

Then,  when  the  task  was  almost  done,  there 
came  a  rude  interruption.  Smothered  laughing 
from  the  wood,  and  then  a  boy's  bold  voice — "Got 
you,  Sanchia!"  A  boy,  two  boys,  leapt  out  from 
behind  a  tree — one  flourishing  a  camera — and  raced 
down  to  the  water's  edge. 

"What'll  you  give  me;  what'll  you  give  me  for 
the  photo?"  cried  one;  and  the  other,  "Well,  you 
are  a  beauty,  I  must  say."  Then  both  looked  at  the 
raft,  and  after  a  moment  of  shock  cheered  Senhouse. 

"Hurrah,  it's  Jack!  Hulloa,  Jack,  how  are  you? 
Have  you  come  in  your  cart?  And — oh,  I  say,  do 
let  me  go  in  that  raft."  He  hugged  himself,  and 
danced  about.  "I  say!  This  is  awful  fun!"  he 
seriously  told  his  brother. 

Senhouse  twinkled.  "Neither  of  you  touches  it 
until  this  lady  has  had  her  turn.  I  promised  it 
to  her  ages  ago.  But  you'll  have  to  try  it,  of  course 
— one  at  a  time.  I  recommend  you  to  toss  up  for 
first  shot.     Meantime,  I'm  coming  ashore." 

He  was  watched  with  almost  painful  interest; 
one   of   the   lads   was   twittering   with   excitement. 


WITH  A  DRYAD  BY  A   POOL  35 

"Oh,  I  say,  Sanchia,  do  look  sharp,"  was  all  he 
could  say.  The  other  was  older  and  had  time  to 
criticise  his  betters.     "Well,  I  must  say,  of  all  the 

beastly  scarecrows  I  ever  saw "     That  was  as 

near  as  he  could  get,  and  quite  near  enough. 

But,  "Dowser,  my  young  friend,"  Senhouse  ad- 
monished him,  "we've  been  performing  deeds  of 
mercy  at  which  it  ill  becomes  you  to  jeer.  We've 
been  visiting  the  sick  in  their  affliction." 

"Yes,"  said  Dowser,  who  was  a  sharp  lad,  "that's 
all  very  fine — but  not  keeping  yourselves  unspotted 
from  the  world,  I'll  be  shot." 

Sanchia  laughed  outright,  but  Senhouse  checked 
by  violence  the  guffaw  he  could  have  awarded. 

"Dowser,  you're  getting  pert,"  he  said.  "I've 
seen  you,  after  a  football  match,  in  a  state  to  which 
this  is  undriven  snow.  Instead  of  which  you  cheek 
your  betters.  Go  to.  Dowser;  Percy  has  first  shot 
at  the  raft." 

"Oh,  but,  please "  Sanchia  began,  and   he 

said,  "Of  course,"  and  bowed  her  to  the  peril.  She 
stepped  gingerly  to  its  middle,  balancing  with  her 
hands;  and  to  Dowser's  "Bet  you  go  in,"  replied 
with  a  defiant  grimace.  "Hand  me  your  stick, 
please,"  she  bade  Senhouse,  without  turning  her 
head,  and  then  canoed  herseL^  across.  The  boys 
ran  capering  round  to  meet  her,  and  Senhouse 
breathed  again  when  he  saw  her  touch  land.  While 
the  pair  were  urging  a  fierce  career  among  the 
lily-leaves  and  getting  wetter  than  their  wildest 
dreams  could   have  bade  them  hope  to  be,   Miss 


36  OPEN  COUNTRY 

Sanchia,  having  unpinned  her  skirts,  prepared  to 
make  her  farewells. 

"It  was  awfully  kind  of  you — and  I'm  afraid 
you're  very  wet.  And  your  bed — is  it  really  your 
bed?" 

He  reassured  her.  "It  wasn't  kind  at  all.  I 
love  those  sorts  of  things — and  I'm  not  half  so  wet 
as  you  are.     And  it  is  really  my  bed." 

"Do  you  sleep — do  you  carry  your ?"     She 

glanced  over  to  the  cart  in  the  road  and  the  crop- 
ping white  horse.     Senhouse,  darkling,  smiled. 

"I  suppose  you  think  it  all  very  odd,"  he  said. 
"It  doesn't  seem  at  all  odd  to  me.  Quite  the  other 
way,  in  fact.  I  hate  indoors,  and  love  outdoors. 
So  my  indoors  is  your  out.  What  you  call  creature 
comforts  are  my  extreme  annoyance.  That's  all. 
I've  done  it  now  for  nearly  ten  years." 

She  watched  his  face  as  he  talked,  and  then  con- 
sidered the  matter.  "It's  very  interesting.  I  don't 
know  why  it  should  be  odd."  Then,  with  quick 
interrogation,  she  asked  him,  "These  boys  knew 
you.     Are  you  a  friend  of  theirs?" 

He  told  her  they  were  the  sons  of  his  host.  "I'm 
going  to  stay  with  Charnock.  On  my  way  now—* 
that  is,  I  was  on  my  way  before  all  these  larks  began. 
And  may  I  ask ?" 

"I'm  staying  with  Lady  Mauleverer,"  she  told 
him,  but  didn't  add  her  name. 

He  cared  nothing  for  her  names,  having  already 
invented  three  or  four  of  his  own  for  her.  "Oh, 
that's  all  right,"  he  said.     "Then  we  shall  meet, 


WITH  A  DRYAD  BY  A  POOL  37 

and  you  shall  see  all  my  arrangements.  The  bed 
will  be  dry  by  then — besides,  I'm  independent  of 
beds.     I  use  the  ground  mostly." 

She  absorbed  this  information  through  the  eyes 
— he  had  never  seen  any  one  with  a  more  alimentary 
gaze — and  presently  offered  him  her  hand.  Then 
she  went  smoothly  through  the  wood,  and  dis- 
appeared among  the  oak-stems. 

The  two  boys  took  it  in  turns  to  drive  the  white 
horse,  Senhouse  stalking  beside  the  cart  with  long 
springing  strides.  It  was  difficult  to  get  facts  out 
of  them.  "Oh,  she's  Sanchia,  of  course.  Fright- 
fully good  sort,"  was  Dowser's  contribution;  to 
which  Percy  added,  ''Staying  with  old  Pussy-Cat 
Mauleverer."  Thus  he  alluded  to  the  stately  relict 
of  the  late  Sir  Giles. 

But  Senhouse  must  have  more.  "Sanchia  who, 
you  young  raff?" 

"Sanchia  Percival,  of  course.  Sanchia- Josepha 
Percival  is  her  name,  England  is  her  nation ;  London 
is  her  dwelling-place,  and  Christ  is  her  salvation." 

"Oh,  shut  up,  Dowser,  you  silly  ass,"  he  was  re- 
proved by  his  brother.   "  That's  profane,  father  says." 

"I  don't  see  why  it  should  be  profane,"  said 
Senhouse,  "if  the  facts  are  so." 

To  which  the  Dowser,  who  always  had  an  an- 
swer to  everything,  replied  that  of  course  the  facts 
were  so,  as  she  was  jolly  High  Church. 

And  so  they  came  to  the  park  of  Bill  Hill  and 
pitched  a  camp. 


CHAPTER  IV 

BETWEEN  BILL  HILL  AND  GORSTON 

Bill  Hill,  ''the  seat,"  as  local  authorities  are 
fond  of  explaining,  "of  our  genial  and  respected 
Member,  Roger  Charnock,  Esq.,"  is  an  imposing 
pile  in  the  Georgian  taste,  made  hideous  by  continu- 
ations and  additions  in  stucco,  modelled,  it  would 
seem,  upon  the  Pavilion  of  Brighton.  That  is  to 
say,  the  centre  of  the  house  is  a  tall  rectangle,  viv- 
idly red,  with  a  coping  of  white  stone;  added  to 
which  are  circular  wings,  two  storeys  in  height, 
turreted,  crocketted,  bedomed  and  bepinnacled, 
spreading  out  embracing  arms  like  those  of  the 
Colonnade  of  Saint  Peter's.  The  area  which  they 
enclose  is  known  as  the  Italian  Gardens,  and  ends 
in  a  parapeted  terrace.  Beyond  that  stretch  "park- 
like grounds,"  with  some  good  trees  clumped  about, 
and  a  small  herd  of  fallow  deer,  which  justify — yes, 
they  do  justify — Mr.  Charnock  in  believing  himself 
the  owner  of  a  deer-park.  On  the  edge  of  that 
the  woods  begin,  and  those  are  magnificent.  Just 
within  the  shelter  of  them,  in  an  open  glade,  hidden 
from  sight  of  the  windows  of  the  house,  Mr.  Sen- 
house  (that  unconscionable  guest  of  Bill  Hill)  had 

pitched  his  tent,  tethered  his  horse,  and  hung  out 

38 


BILL  HILL  AND   GORSTON  39 

his  sweater  and  trousers  to  dry.  The  Dowser  (whose 
name  was  really  Roger,  after  his  father)  had 
assisted  cheerfully  in  the  washing  and  wringing 
of  the  miry  garments,  had  stretched  the  line  be- 
tween tree  and  tree  and  pegged  them  up.  But  he 
had  remarked  as  he  did  so,  "I  say,  I  advise  you  to 
take  these  down  before  the  pater  comes  to  see  you, 
or  there'll  be  a  holy  row.  He  thinks  bags  are  fright- 
fully indecent."      ''it 

Senhouse  took  this  grimly.  "Doesn't  he  think 
it  more  indecent  to  be  without  'em?"  he  had  asked. 

The  Dowser  never  laughed — boys  don't,  unless 
somebody  gets  hurt  by  accident.  When  he  was 
amused  he  appeared  to  choke,  and  immediately  began 
to  work  at  something  with  energy. 

''He  thinks  they're  indecent  when  they're  off 
you.  He  likes  'em  on  you.  Directly  they're  off 
he  loathes  'em.    The  pater's  awfully  rum." 

"Everybody's  rum,  Dowser,  except  you  and  me," 
Senhouse  said,  lighting  his  pipe. 

The  Dowser  stared.  "You!"  he  said.  "You! 
Good  Lord,  I  should  jolly  well  think  you  were  rum." 
He  became  confidential.  "I  say,  I  think  I  ought  to 
tell  you.  The  pater  thinks  you're  cracky,  you 
know." 

Senhouse  was  deep  in  enjoyment  of  his  pipe  and 
this  youth.  He  nodded  his  head,  revelling.  "I'm 
sure  of  it — dead  certain — God  bless  him.  Now, 
would  it  surprise  you  to  learn  that  I  think  him  mad  ? 
Stark  and  staring?" 

The  Dowser   said,  very  shortly,   that  he   didn't 


40  OPEN  COUNTRY 

see  that  at  all,  and  changed  the  conversation.  "I 
think  I  ought  to  tell  you,"  he  began,  and  Senhouse 
threw  up  his  head  and  appealed  to  the  skies,  to 
Dowser's  confusion  of  face.  ''Well,  I  do  think 
so,"  he  pursued  in  a  stately  manner.  "I  fancy  it's 
important,  but  I  may  be  wrong." 

"Oh,  go  on.  Dowser,  go  on,"  said  Senhouse,  "or 
I  shall  die  of  you — in  aromatic  pain." 

"It's  just  as  you  like,  of  course,"  the  youth  ex- 
plained. "But  as  a  matter  of  fact,  Percy  did  take 
a  snap-shot  of  you  and  Sanchia  in  the  pond — and 
he's  printing  'em  now."  Senhouse  betrayed  a 
gleam  in  the  eye.  The  lids  narrowed,  the  pupils  con- 
tracted, but  he  sat  as  carven  as  a  Red  Indian.  He 
pulled  three  times  at  his  pipe  and  swallowed  all 
the  smoke. 

"If  Percy  will  give  me  a  print  of  that  photograph," 
he  said,  "I  shall  present  him  with  ten  bob  and  my 
blessing." 

"He'd  present  you,  as  you  call  it,  with  fifty  for 
half-a-crown,"  said  the  Dowser  with  the  utmost 
scorn.  "Ten  bob!  Why,  it's  absurd — besides,  I 
don't  suppose  you've  got  ten  bob." 

"I  can  earn  it,  you  know.  Dowser,"  said  Sen- 
house  meekly,  but  with  guile. 

The  Dowser  and  his  brother  were  both  going  to 
Eton  that  summer,  and  quite  aware  of  the  impor- 
tance of  the  step.  But  they  had  not  yet  reached 
the  point  of  considering  their  firm  friend  Mr.  Sen- 
house   otherwise   than   "splendid."     They   enjoyed 


BILL  HILL  AND   GORSTON  41 

every  ounce  of  him,  and  every  vagary  which  deso- 
lated their  father  seemed  to  them  still  ^'a  spiffing 
game."  That  a  man  should  sleep  in  a  fur-lined 
sack,  wash  his  own  trousers,  tend  his  own  horse, 
cook  his  own  cutlet,  and  peel  his  own  potatoes — 
and  yet,  mind  you,  be  a  gentleman — still  opened  up 
to  them  possibilities  of  pleasure  beyond  the  flights 
of  Mr.  Henty,  Mr.  Stevenson,  or  Mr.  Manville 
Fenn.  Frightfully  exciting  and  frightfully  con- 
venient. Here,  you  see,  was  Robinson  Crusoe 
actually  next  door:  next  door!  nay,  in  the  park  of 
Bill  Hill,  adventuring  daily,  living  from  hand  to 
mouth — in  a  condition  in  which  anything  might 
happen  at  any  moment,  calling  for  the  use  of  stock- 
ades, rifles,  and  plenty  of  ammunition.  It  was, 
of  course,  a  pity  that  he  refused  to  shoot,  because 
obviously  he  would  be — he  must  be  (a  chap  like 
that) — a  splendid  shot.  But  you  can't  have  every- 
thing; and  to  be  the  most  exciting  man  in  the  world 
— Robinson  Crusoe  and  the  Last  of  the  Mohicans 
combined — and  a  gentleman,  did  seem  a  combina- 
tion of  hazard  and  safety  almost  too  good  to  be  true. 
Yet  here  he  was,  stockaded  once  more  in  the  park, 
and  as  ripping  as  ever — not  a  bit  changed;  not  he! 
It  cannot  be  said  that  he  appealed  with  equal 
force  to  the  prosperous  father  of  these  boys.  Roger 
Chamock,  M.P.  for  Graseby,  seated  nobly  in  Bill 
Hill,  surv^eyed  his  guest-chambers  and  was  an- 
noyed with  his  friend.  The  house  was  far  from 
fuH;  it  had,  in  fact,  besides  the  family,  only  his 
noble   brother-in-law,   Lord   William   Botetort — for 


42  OPEN  COUNTRY 

Mr.  Chamock  had  married  blood — and  Miss  Dreen, 
whom  the  boys  (for  reasons  best  known  to  themselves) 
called  Misdemeanour.  Now,  Lord  William  was  very 
urbane,  and  of  course  accepted  men  as  he  found 
them,  and  Miss  Dreen  was  very  poor,  and  had  to; 
but  it  looked  very  odd — it  must  look  so;  and  it 
was  uncomfortable  that  a  woman  like  that  should 
see  Senhouse  come  and  go  from  a  tent  to  the  dinner- 
table,  and  be  so  entirely  at  his  ease  and  take  every- 
thing as  a  joke,  and  an  excellent  joke  at  that.  And 
of  course  there  were  the  servants — oh,  there  were 
times  when  Chamock  (before  the  fire  in  his  great 
library)  lifted  up  his  hands  in  despair  and  let  them 
fall  clattering  to  his  sides.  He  must  speak  to  Jack 
seriously,  take  him  aside.  It  was  damnably  awk- 
ward— and  the  Pauncelows  coming  next  week,  and 
very  possibly  the  Badlesmeres,  who  were  staying 
at  Critchford.  If  he  could  persuade  Jack,  now, 
to  put  on  a  swallow-tail  coat  for  dinner — or  even 
a  black  one;  was  that  too  much  to  ask  of  a  man 
who  was  staying  with  you?  Surely  not,  surely  not. 
Other  people  did  these  things,  and  surely  the  ways 
of  decent  society — !  And  yet  Mr.  Chamock  fur- 
rowed in  his  whiskers,  and  turned  desperately  to 
the  fire,  and  said  Pshaw !  and  stretched  out  his  arms 
to  their  length — and  knew  in  his  heart  that,  much  or 
little,  he  should  not  ask  it  of  Jack  Senhouse. 

The  worst  of  Jack — and  Chamock  knew  it — 
was  his  undoubted  ability.  He  could  talk  like  the 
Archangel  Gabriel,  and  reason  like  a  kind  of  Socra- 
tes, with  an  infernal,  insinuating,  artless  craft  which 


BILL  HILL  AND   GORSTON 


43 


landed  you  in  a  vital  contradiction  before  you  knew 
where  you  were.  He  had  the  knack,  impossible 
to  the  good  Chamock,  of  putting  the  things  you  did 
as  a  matter  of  course  in  such  a  light  as  to  make 
them  appear  the  acts  of  a  maniac;  and  no  man  of 
assured  position,  who  does  nothing  (and  makes  a 
point  of  doing  nothing)  which  is  not  done  in  good 
society,  likes  to  be  gibbeted  to  his  guests,  children, 
butler,  and  household  as  a  lunatic  at  large.  Yet, 
if  you  weren't  mighty  careful,  that  was  just  what 
Jack  did — and  seemed  entirely  ruthless,  too,  when 
he  was  fairly  under  way.  Why  didn't  he  go  for 
Bill  Botetort,  for  instance  ?  What  did  he,  Charnock, 
do  that  Bill  Botetort  didn't  do?  And  with  much 
more  justification,  too — for  Bill  Botetort  was  as 
poor  as  a  rat,  and  he,  Chamock,  could  pay  for  his 
little  things.  Damn  it  all,  you  know.  Jack  went  too 
far  occasionally.  The  little  things  of  Bill  Botetort 
were  passed  over — though  he  never  paid  for  'em — 
and  his,  Charnock's,  were  put  down  as  the  deeds 
of  a  lunatic.  He  was  damned  if  he  saw  how  the 
point  came  in;  but  he  knew,  too  well,  just  where 
it  came  in  and  how  confoundedly  it  hurt.  All  this, 
you  will  allow,  was  rough  on  a  man  who  tried  to 
do  his  duty  by  his  motherless  boys,  and  to  serve  his 
country,  and  stick  to  the  Newcastle  programme,  and 
pay  ready  money  for  his  little  things. 

And  what  an  odd  thing  it  was — he  sat  now, 
nursing  one  well-clad  leg  upon  the  other — that  old 
Lady    Mauleverer    took    Jack    so   well.     The    last 


44  OPEN  COUNTRY 

person  in  the  world,  you'd  have  thought.  But 
when  she  came  over  the  other  day  with  Grace,  and 
that  pretty  Percival  girl,  the  very  first  thing  she  said 
when  she  was  in  the  Hall  was,  "Where's  the  Roll- 
ing Stone,  Roger  ?  I  beg  you  to  produce  the  Scholar- 
Gipsy."  And  old  Jack  called  out  from  the  case  of 
birds  (where  he  was  with  the  boys),  *'Here  I  am, 
my  lady,  still  gathering  no  moss";  and  down  he 
comes  and  shakes  hands  all  round  just  like  a  chap 
in  decent  clothes.  And  in  a  white  sweater  and 
flannels — and  in  sandals — and  (as  anybody  could 
see)  with  not  another  stitch  on  him  anywhere.  And, 
as  you  might  say,  he  ran  the  whole  place  after  that; 
took  them  all  off  in  a  troop  across  the  park — with 
the  boys  racing  in  front  like  young  Indians — and 
turned  out  his  whole  kit  for  them  to  see.  Bill 
Botetort  there  too,  as  keen  as  mustard.  If  you'll 
believe  Charnock,  there  were  things — garments — • 
rags  of  sorts — hanging  on  a  clothes-line.  Upon  his 
soul,  it  was  pretty  stiff,  you  know,  that. 

Everything  was  dragged  out — chafing-dish,  ket- 
tles, pots  and  pans,  bed-clothes,  sleeping-sack, 
tom-cat,  which  he  calls  Mufti  and  pretends  is  a 
familiar  spirit — you  can't  help  smiling  at  the  fel- 
low, you  know,  he's  such  a  thundering  ass — oh, 
and  a  whole  heap  of  oddments  (his  "library"! — 
three  old  Dclphin  classics  and  a  Tom  Jones  and  a 
Shelley);  and  then  a  lot  )f  plants  which  he  was 
going  to  stick  about  in  tne  woods,  if  you'll  believe 
Charnock.  Bill  Botetort  had  been  really  excited 
about  that:    you   can  always  tell  when  he's  inter- 


BILLIILL  AND   GORSTON  45 

ested,  because  h twitches  his  ears;  and  old  Lady 
Mauleverer  insisd  on  his  spending  a  day  in  the 
Gorston  coverts-vhich  are  the  best  in  the  county 
■ — planting  'em.  !harnock  really  didn't  know  what 
her  man  would  ay,  to  be  called  off  his  orchid- 
houses  for  the  w)le  blessed  day,  sticking  in  snip- 
pets of  things  froi  South  America  in  the  woods. 

But  that  wasi:  all.     Charnock  admitted  freely 

that  Jack  was  ai  all-rounder.     You  never  seemed 

to  get  to  the  endof  him.     The  little  Percival  girl 

found  out  someho'  that  he  painted  in  water-colours, 

and    then    there  vas    no    stopping    her.      Keen! 

Why,   her  eyes   sbne  like   sea-water  in   the  sun. 

And  she  hadn't  a  ^ord  to  say.     She  just  stared  and 

swallowed  his  thirds  one  after  another,  as  if  she 

was  frightened  of  'm.     It  was  extraordinary.     My 

lady  insisted  on  hmng  one  or  two — and  paid  for 

them   down   on   th(  nail.     Thirty   shillings   apiece 

she  gave,  and  Jack  pocketed  the  money,  and  said 

to  Percy  (by  the  w,y),  ''Now  I  can  pay  you  that 

ten  bob  I  owe  you.'     He  gave  the  girl  a  thing  she 

liked — a  washy  thing  of  the  pool  in  Gorston  Thicket 

— an  unfinished   thing,  evidently;  but  she  seemed 

extremely  grateful   ti)  him;    and   the  whole  jaunt 

ended  up  by  my  lady  telling  him  he  could  come  to 

Gorston  whenever  he  chose — "as  you  know  very 

well,"  she  had  put  it — .xnd  must  see  the  girl's  sketches. 

He  went  there  to  tea  {  at  afternoon,  and  Bill  Bote- 

tort  with  him,  and  of  course  the  boys;  and  he  didn't 

turn  up  at  Bill  Hill  again  for  at  least  three  days. 

Well,  you  know  (Charnock  put  it  to  himself),  to 


46  OPEN  COUNTRY 

say  the  very  least  of  it,  that's  a  qieer  sort  of  guest 
for  a  man  to  have  about.  But  "ack  must  be  al- 
lowed for,  that  was  clear — and  iter  all,  he  had 
begun  this  sort  of  thing  before  h(  left  Cambridge, 
and  the  odds  were  that  most  people  did  allow  for 
him.  It  was  impossible  to  help  liking  Jack,  too 
— quite  impossible  to  be  annoyed  with  him  for 
long. 

And  then  Mr.  Charnock,  with  ;i  sigh,  lit  a  fresh 
cigar,  and  went  out  into  the  sun;ihine  to  interview 
his  head-keeper. 

Meantime  the  unconscionable  guest,  for  the  first 
time  in  his  life  (as  he  told  himself)  had  centred 
all  his  hopes  of  Heaven  in  the  slim  shape,  pale  face 
and  deep  blue  eyes  of  Miss  Sanc!iia  Percival.  Thor- 
ough-goer that  he  was,  he  set  no  bounds  to  his  affair. 
He  loved  her  in  the  most  romantic  way,  exulted 
and  triumphed  in  her  beauty,,  absorbed  in  ever- 
growing wonder  her  still  ways,  /adventured  (entirely 
in  vain)  into  the  thickets  of  ther  mind,  pondered 
every  simple  syllable  she  utter(|3d,  and  found  grace 
beyond  the  power  of  telling  i^i  every  quick  move- 
ment of  her  thin  hands.  His|  passion  was  wholly 
contemplative;  it  was  enough-] -more  than  enough — 
for  him  to  see  and  glory  in)  her.  He  would  not 
have  revealed  to  her,  for  all/  the  kingdoms  of  the 
world,  what  he  felt  about  he/*.  He  would  as  soon, 
he  said,  seek  the  favours  of  ipiana  of  the  Ephesians 
as  dare  to  expect  one  chargi'd  look  from  her  eyes. 
*'Why,"  he  cried,  "more  tliian  half  her  unearthly 


BILL  HILL  AND   GORSTON  47 

beauty  lies  in  her  complete  ignorance  of  it.  The 
simplicity  with  which  she — Goddess  bom — goes 
about  the  common  ways  of  life  and  with  ardour 
shares  our  silly  aims  has  something  in  it  of  humil- 
ity which  fills  my  eyes  with  tears.  Sheer  thanks- 
giving— sheer  gratitude  in  me.  I  go  about  singing 
Paean!  She's  Artemis  the  Bright  come  to  earth 
again.  Artemis  Einodie — Our  Lady  of  the  Ways. 
She  can  only  be  served  by  song;  no  common  speech 
of  ours  is  wholesome  enough.  She's  Artemis  Hym- 
nia,  to  whom  the  crocus-vested  Caryatides  lift  up 
arms  and  voices  in  one  strain.  She's  Mab,  Queen 
of  Faery;  she's,  of  course,  the  Lady  of  the  Lake.  I 
believe  the  blue-bells  bow  their  heads  to  her  as  she 
walks  the  woods;  and  I  know  that  the  nightingale 
is  hushed  as  she  passes,  for  fear  he  lose  one  waft 
of  her  breath.  But  afterwards  he  throbs  out  in  one 
long  gush  of  pride  her  presence  and  his  hope  of  her 
again.  His  throat  is  a  melodious  well,  and  my  pen 
can  never  run  dry  any  more.  Una  donna  pietosa, 
e  di  novella  etade — O  Florentine,  you  never  took 
more  glory  from  your  lady's  green  eyes  than  I  from 
the  sapphire  deeps  of  mine!  But  you  sang  much 
better,  confound  you.  However,  I  shall  have  a 
shot."  And  he  did.  If  he  sketched  with  Sanchia 
all  day,  he  rhymed  with  Erato  all  night. 

She  knew  absolutely  nothing  of  this — if  it  be 
credible  that  a  girl  of  twenty  can  spend  her  days 
with  a  man  ten  years  older  and  not  see  what  is  the 
case  with  him.  He,  at  least,  would  have  sworn 
his  secret  unguessed.     It  seemed  to  him  the  most 


48  OPEN  COUNTRY 

beautiful  thing  (by  far)  about  her  that  she  accepted 
his  companionship  with  the  simple  satisfaction  she 
would  take  of  every  soul,  male  or  female,  who  had 
to  give  that  which  she  stood  in  need  of  at  the  mo- 
ment. So  far  as  she  was  concerned,  he  met,  or 
flattered  himself  he  met,  her  immediate  wants. 
She  had  many,  but  love  was  certainly  not  one. 
She  wanted  guidance  in  her  sketching,  and  his 
was  exactly  that  which  she  wanted  most.  She  had 
seen  in  a  moment  that  he  was  a  master  in  that  art. 
She  wanted  guidance  in  a  world  which  was  rapidly 
becoming  complex  and  baffling;  and  he  could  pare 
off  detail  and  accident  so  nearly  that  the  straight 
bold  outline  of  conduct  lay  plain  to  be  seen,  stretch- 
ing far  and  ahead  of  her  like  parallel  lines  of  rail- 
way over  swamps.  To  talk  with  him  was  to  be  taken 
on  to  a  windy  height  and  shown  the  w^orld  of  men 
mapped  out  below  you,  accidentals  blurred  away, 
only  the  salient  things  sharply  defined.  Sure  of 
this,  she  gave  him  her  hand,  and  in  the  hollow  of  it 
her  soul.  She  could  have  told  him  anything  and 
everything;  but  his  value  to  her  lay  just  in  this,  that 
one  need  tell  him  nothing — he  seemed  to  under- 
stand. Speech  was  always  difficult  to  her,  though 
she  thought  much,  and  always  (while  the  thought 
remained  unvoiced)  in  a  set  form  of  words.  But 
to  him  a  hint  was  enough,  even  silence  was  enough, 
and  this  made  him  invaluable  to  her.  She  could 
not  imagine,  sometimes,  how  she  had  ever  done 
without  him.  There  was  not,  I  need  hardly  say, 
the  shadow  of  a  feeling  of  love  for  him  in  her.     She 


BILL  HILL  AND   GORSTON 


49 


took  him  as  a  gift  of  God,  as  meat  to  one  starving, 
and  said  grace  and  filled  herself. 

And  so  she  continued  to  take  him,  thanks  to  a 
certain  irresponsiveness  with  which  she  was  en- 
dowed, a  certain  insensibility  to  outside  opinion 
which  she  could  assume  at  will.  Her  friend  Grace 
Mauleverer  was  two-and-tw^nty ;  and  at  that  age 
two  years  is  very  much  indeed.  Grace  Mauleverer, 
through  the  eyes  of  two-and-twenty,  saw  what  was 
going  on,  and  knew  exactly  what  was  the  matter 
with  Jack  Senhouse.  With  that  unnecessary  and 
exaggerated  caution  which  young  ladies  so  cheer- 
fully impress  upon  their  bosom  friends,  she  had  felt 
it  her  duty  to  give  Sanchia  what  she  was  pleased 
to  call  a  hint.  The  hint  had  been  imparted  at  the 
hour  of  going  to  bed,  when  both  girls  were  partially 
disrobed,  and  both  had  their  hair  down.  Sanchia 
had,  in  all  innocence,  brought  up  the  name  of  Sen- 
house.  *'No,  I  can't  come,"  she  had  said,  ''because 
I'm  going  to  sketch  with  Mr.  Senhouse.  He  says 
we're  to  take  lunch,  so  I  expect  we  shall." 

It  was  then  that  Grace  Mauleverer  had  said,  "I 
should  take  care,  my  dear." 

Sanchia  had  looked  up  at  herself  in  the  glass, 
before  which  she  was  stooped,  brushing  out  her 
hair.  She  had  looked  up  at  herself,  and  above 
herself  at  her  friend's  intrigued  face  which  was 
behind  her.  Her  eyes  were  wide  open,  and  her 
eyebrows  steeply  arched.  "What  on  earth  do  you 
mean?"  she  had  asked.  "What  am  I  to  take  care 
of?" 


50  OPEN  COUNTRY 

''My  dear!"  protested  Miss  Mauleverer,  and 
Sanchia  had  coloured. 

"I  don't  know  in  the  very  least  what  you  mean," 
she  had  said. 

Miss  Mauleverer  found  this  to  be  as  it  might 
be.  ''You  are  not  going  to  tell  me  that  you  don't 
know  things." 

"What  things?" 

"Oh,  ordinary  things.  That  Mr.  Senhouse  is  at- 
tracted, for  example " 

"Do  you  mean  attracted  by  me?" 

"Well,  Sancie,  I  don't  mean  attracted  by  Granny." 

Then  Sanchia  had  made  the  baffling  utterance, 
"If  he  is,  I  don't  see  why  he  shouldn't  be.  He's 
been  awfully  kind,  if  you  mean  that." 

"But  I  don't  mean  that,"  said  Miss  Mauleverer — 
"not  the  least  in  the  world." 

"Then,"  said  Sanchia,  "I  don't  know  what  you 
can  mean.  And  I  think  it's  rather  stupid  to  talk 
about  those  things,  anyhow.  There  are  much  more 
exciting  ones,  quantities  and  quantities.  He's  going 
to  teach  me  Greek  and  Italian — and  if  that  isn't  ex- 
citing, nothing  can  be." 

"I'm  sure  it  will  be  most  exciting,"  Miss  Mau- 
leverer said,  and  compassionately  kissed  Sanchia. 
She  had  done  her  duty  and  had  been  snubbed  for 
it;  but  the  snubs  of  twenty  are  compliments  to 
twenty-two. 


CHAPTER  V 

GREEK  AND  ITALIAN 

The  love  which  filled  Senhouse,  heart  and  soul, 
had  very  possibly  a  physical  base,  for  if  she  had 
not  been  caught  playing  Dryad,  had  not  waded 
thigh-deep  in  the  pool,  his  senses  might  never  have 
been  enthralled;  but  as  it  gained  in  volume  and 
mass  it  became  more  and  more  an  affair  of  the  in- 
tellect. It  was  the  glimpse  he  got  into  her  mind, 
the  chance-caught  vistas  of  mind-scape,  so  to  speak, 
rarer  than  any  blue  distance  dreamed  of  by  Claude; 
it  was  these  unspeakably  fair  gleams  which  en- 
thralled his  contemplation.  He  thought  of  her  as  a 
hedged  garden,  where  wild  flowers  were  set  in  bor- 
ders, and  hinted  the  more  fragrantly  their  native 
simplicity  for  the  trim  pattern  they  were  schooled 
to  fulfil.  This  was  where  she  ravished  him  quite; 
she  was  like  a  wood-nymph  half- tamed,  meek  in  a 
stiff  gown  and  belt,  her  quick  feet  in  little  narrow 
shoes  and  stockings;  her  wild  hair  knotted  behind 
her  head,  her  quick  eyes  recollected,  her  nimble 
movements  always  curbed.  And  yet  below  bodice 
and  belt  you  could  sense  the  heart  beat  faster  for 
the  wild  kiss  of  the  wind  on  the  cheek ;  and  you  could 
well  believe  that  in  woods,  on  airy  summits  of  hills, 

51 


52  OPEN  COUNTRY 

in  meadows  by  streams,  in  ploughlands  after  rain, 
she  was  living  a  double  life — within,  the  ears  of 
her  heart  alert  to  secret  strains,  magic  calls,  and 
incitations  to  be  free;  outwardly,  all  her  beautiful 
body  staidly  disposed  to  the  common  world's  ob- 
servances. Here  he  saw  her  humble,  and  could 
shed  tears  of  pride  in  such  condescension;  there 
he  knew  her  indomitable,  and  could  sing  Te  Deum 
for  her  immortality. 

This  double  nature  of  hers  made  him  wary  in 
what  he  taught  her.  He  was  a  man  full  to  the 
throat  with  theory.  He  was  deliberately  an  An- 
archist ;  extremely  a  freethinker  in  religious  matters, 
though  he  had  much  more  native  piety  in  him  than 
any  dogmatist.  But  he  found  her  implicitly  the 
daughter  of  a  sound  old  tory  merchant,  and  of  a 
High  Church,  emotional  mamma:  here  was  the 
fount  of  her  incarnation  (as  he  put  it) ;  here  lay  her 
predestined  road  through  our  world;  therefore  he 
held  off  politics  and  religion  as  long  as  he  could. 
Art,  poetry,  plant-lore,  beast-lore,  travel,  and  the 
humours  of  mankind:  he  made  these  the  staple  of 
his  talk. 

But  as  the  golden  days  sped  along,  he  found 
that  she  was  not  inclined  to  take  her  surroundings 
for  granted.  She  betrayed  curiosity  about  his  man- 
ner of  life;  wanted  to  know  why  he  lived  in  a  cart, 
and  why  Mr.  Charnock  was  so  perturbed  that  he 
should  do  it.  Finding  herself  grouped  with  Mr. 
Charnock,  she  was  disposed  to  defend  her  positions, 
though  he  had  never  attacked  them.     By  and  by, 


GREEK  AND   ITALIAN  53 

growing  bolder  as  she  grew  at  ease,  she  began  to 
attack  his  positions.  Did  he  go  to  church?  Was 
not  one  bound  to  communicate  at  least  three  times 
a  year  (of  which  Easter  to  be  one)?  Did  he  not 
think  submission  to  authority  a  discipline?  and  so 
on.  Lover  as  he  was,  and  a  neck-or-nothing  man 
by  temper,  he  was  deeply  touched;  but  he  did  not 
attempt  any  reasoned  defence.  That  which  had 
been  abominable  to  him  he  found  reasonable  in  her, 
and  even  admirable.  Therefore  he  went  to  church 
with  her  on  week-day  mornings,  and  spent  the  hour 
of  the  muttered  sacrifice  in  a  contemplative  ecstasy. 
Sanchia  at  prayer!  Her  folded  knees,  her  folded 
hands,  her  lovely  bowed  head,  her  touchings  of  the 
breast  (as  the  points  of  the  Cross  were  illuminated 
by  her  finger-tips) — here,  it's  to  be  owned,  were  the 
objects  of  his  adoration.  Yet  he  had  never  been 
nearer  to  the  God  of  the  English  than  in  these 
weeks,  and  he  did  not  get  much  further  away  dur- 
ing the  years  of  which  this  book  is  to  tell  the  tale. 
She  led  him,  you  see,  a  willing  captive  to  her  hand — 
that  is,  her  outward,  beautiful  seeming  led  him  so. 
But  her  life  was  double,  the  Dryad  thrilled  within 
her;  and  with  the  wood-girl  she  secretly  was,  the 
faun  in  him  sped  fleetly  in  the  Open  Country. 

As  to  her  painting  in  water-colour,  she  was  firm 
to  go  on  with  it;  and  here  the  artist  in  him  had  to 
contend  with  the  lover.  The  tussling  between  this 
pair  was  often  grim,  and  was  never  fought  to  a 
finish.  Senhouse  was  inexorably  artist — perfectly  pos- 
itive in  his  vision,  secure  in  his  technique,  and  scorn- 


54  OPEN  COUNTRY 

ful,  like  all  artists,  of  anything  but  absolute  perfec- 
tion. Now  Sanchia  had  much  of  the  temperament, 
and  all  of  the  passion,  which  an  artist  must  have; 
but  she  had  not  the  vision,  and  could  never  have 
the  audacity — that  intrepidity  of  aim  which  cannot 
possibly  miss  the  mark.  That  he  knew  within  the 
first  half-hour  of  work  with  her.  She  would  never 
paint,  as  he  understood  painting — never,  never. 
Again  he  was  touched;  again  he  felt  that  he  loved 
her  the  more  wildly  for  her  very  limitations;  and 
again  he  laid  violent  hands  upon  himself ;  and  when 
he  wanted  to  cry  out  upon  the  weakness  of  her  work, 
lashed  out  upon  some  botching  in  his  own.  Here 
was  a  safety-vent.  He  painted  with  her,  himself, 
always,  and  cut  his  stuff  to  ribbons  in  order  that  she 
might  learn  something  from  it.  I  don't  believe 
that  she  ever  saw  through  this  ruse.  He  took  end- 
less pains  that  she  should  not. 

But  it  was  clean  impossible  that  a  man  of  his 
sort  should  gag  himself  at  every  turn;  and  he  did 
not.  In  poetry  he  let  himself  go  free.  He  read 
her  Shelley,  Homer,  Dante,  the  Anthology,  and 
himself.  During  those  three  weeks  he  wrote  a  son- 
net about  her  every  night,  and  read  one  to  her  every 
morning.  They  professed  to  tell  the  praises  of  a 
heathen  divinity — the  swift  Goddess  who  delights 
in  arrows;  and  I  should  very  much  like  to  know 
what  she  thought  about  them.  I  have  no  difficulty 
in  determining  what  Miss  Grace  Mauleverer  would 
have  thought  if  she  had  been  present;   but  she  was 


GREEK  AND   ITALIAN 


55 


not.  The  morning  reading  always  took  place  in 
Gorston  Woods  on  the  way  back  from  early  church. 
For  Sanchia,  it  seems,  fell  into  the  practice  of  at- 
tending the  Communion  service  daily  during  her 
three  weeks  at  Gorston ;  and  Mr.  Senhouse  followed 
her  meekly,  as  led  by  a  string.  On  the  return,  as 
I  say,  he  read  her  the  sonnet  of  the  previous  night. 
He  wasn't,  in  my  opinion,  so  good  a  poet  that  I 
need  present  a  specimen  of  his  sonnets.  Painting 
was  really  his  art.  But  he  was  well  read  in  Greek, 
Italian,  and  English  literature,  and  exceedingly 
sensitive  to  nuances  of  style.  There  was  undoubt- 
edly a  touch  of  the  austere  grace  of  the  Anthology 
in  what  he  did,  something  of  Dante's  naked  sim- 
plicity— that  matter-of-fact  statement  of  poetical 
truth  in  the  terms  of  literal  truth — and  more  than  a 
little  of  Shelley's  intoxicating  eloquence.  Perhaps 
you  may  guess  his  quality  from  this  criticism:  if 
you  don't,  I  must  present  you  with  a  verse  or  two 
by  and  by.  Anyhow,  whether  he  was  true  poet  or 
mere  versifier,  he  was  an  uncommon  rhapsodist. 
Over  Shelley's  Prometheus  he  poured  out  his  praise 
in  a  torrent.  He  called  it  the  greatest  blank  verse 
in  the  English  language,  and  put  Milton  next; 
then  Keats,  in  the  revised  Hyperion;  then  Words- 
worth, in  Tintern  Abbey.  Tennyson  he  put  last, 
and  refused  to  admit  Browning  into  the  company 
at  all.  The  Ring  and  the  Book,  even  the  best  of  it, 
was  much  too  lyrical,  he  said.  Browning  was  a 
singer,  not  a  bard.  The  finest  imaginative  touch 
in  the  whole  of  English  poetry,  by  the  way,  he  con- 


56  OPEN   COUNTRY 

sidered  to  be  Panthea's  words  in  the  Prometheus, 
where  lone  says: 

Sister,  I  hear  the  thunder  of  new  wings, 

and  then  Panthea* 

Their  shadows  make 
The  space  within  my  plumes  more  black  than  night. 

He  thundered  this  passage  upon  her,  and  she  ab- 
sorbed him  palely,  with  her  wondrous  eyes  rounded 
upon  him.  "I  tell  you,  Sanchia" — she  was  well 
Sanchia,  he  Jack  by  this  time — **  that's  terrific,  and 
the  mastery  of  it  takes  away  the  breath.  It's  one 
thing  to  image  these  sea- women  in  the  mind,  gazing 
there,  half-immersed,  at  the  foot  of  the  tortured 
giant's  crag.  One  sees  them  as  he  did,  looking  up, 
like  cormorants  deep  in  the  sea,  sideways  and  pon- 
dering ;  one  sees  the  swirl  of  the  green  water,  and  the 
spray  run  up  the  rock  at  every  surge.  But  there's 
more  to  do,  since  Shelley  sees  much  more.  There 
are  wings:  oh,  Heaven,  'the  thunder  of  new  wings.' 
First  they  hear  and  then  they  see.  'These  solid 
mountains  quiver  with  the  sound';    and  then  you 

have  it: 

Their  shadows  make 
The  space  within  my  plumes  more  black  than  night. 

Oh,  Lord,  Lord,  Lord!  Think  of  it!  He's  got 
it  all  by  that.  Not  only  the  huge  impending  shades, 
sweeping  over  like  a  driven  cloud — but  don't  you 
see  the  wings  of  those  who  see  what's  coming? 
'The  space  within  my  plumes';  that's  the  master- 
stroke.    Imagine  those  spaced  plumes,  please.    Just 


GREEK  AND   ITALIAN 


57 


shut  your  eyes,  and  see  the  ragged,  flaggy  things." 
Here  he  paused,  and  sat  glooming,  dark,  oracular, 
like  a  bald-eyed  Sphinx  in  Egypt,  for  a  space  of 
time.  And  then  he  seemed  to  despair  of  men,  and 
laughed  it  ofiF.  "There's  immortality  assured  in  a 
line  like  that,  if  anybody  knew  anything  about  it; 
but  of  course  nobody  does.  A  man  of  old  had  been 
accepted  as  a  Seer,  a  woman  as  a  Sibyl,  for  less  than 
that.  But  that's  not  our  way.  Some  thousands 
of  besotted  householders  have  read  that  over  the 
fire,  and  not  one  but  does  not  take  it  for  granted  that 
it  was  put  there  'to  round  off  the  sentence.'  But 
Shelley  knew.  'Thou  shalt  outlive  the  shadow  of 
our  night.'  Yes,  my  dear,  he  knew.  So  I  suppose 
it's  all  right." 

He  bewildered  her,  no  doubt,  but  he  excited  her, 
and  interested  her  vastly.  She  grew  mentally  more 
during  those  three  May  weeks  than  in  three  years 
of  Great  Cumberland  Place  or  of  the  High  School, 
where  she  had  made  friends  with  Grace  Mauleverer. 
Yet  her  growth,  as  he  was  glad  to  see,  did  but  broaden 
her  base,  not  shift  it.  She  had  too  much  character 
to  relinquish  the  habits  in  which  she  had  been 
bred  simply  because  she  was  being  swept  off  her 
feet  and  carried  through  the  air  on  flights  un- 
dreamed of  before.  Instead  of  discarding  her  old 
ideas,  she  made  room  for  the  new  ones  beside  them, 
and  did  not  see,  or  care  to  find  out,  what  incongruous 
company  they  were  keeping.  She  had  a  critical 
faculty  of  her  own,  too,  which  she  employed  freely 
when  she  found  herself  on  terms  with  her  volcanic 


58  OPEN  COUNTRY 

friend.  She  began,  as  a  pioneer,  with  the  fringes 
of  him.  She  thought,  for  instance,  that  he  smoked 
too  many  cigarettes,  and  said  so.  He  returned  at 
once  to  his  pipes.  She  suggested  next  that  he  might 
concede  a  dress  coat  to  the  stately  company  which 
gathered  at  Bill  Hill  towards  the  end  of  his  visit. 
He  admitted  that  he  hadn't  got  one,  but  produced 
a  blue  serge  jacket,  which  looked  black  by  lamp- 
light, and  went  up  to  dine  with  the  Badlesmeres 
in  a  white  shirt,  black  necktie,  and  this  jacket. 
These  tributes  to  her  power  she  received  with  a  be- 
coming absence  of  elation.  If  she  was  flattered  she 
did  not  let  him  know  it. 

I  said  that  his  love  for  her  became  speedily  in- 
tellectual, and  I  maintain  that  it  did  even  though 
temptations  in  quite  another  direction  were  very 
strong.  Sanchia  had  an  absence  of  self-conscious- 
ness, a  simplicity  and  a  directness  which  were  very 
dangerous.  Her  hand  was  his  to  hold  whenever 
he  pleased;  she  never  pretended  that  she  was  not 
glad  to  see  him,  proud  that  she  was  his  chosen 
companion,  that  she  knew  more  of  his  thoughts 
and  intentions  than  anybody  at  Gorston,  or  Bill 
Hill  either.  When  she  was  absorbed  in  work,  or 
thought,  or  reverie;  when  she  was  thrilling  at  his 
eloquence  or  glowing  under  his  influence,  he  might 
have  captured  her  hand,  or  her  waist;  to  have 
kissed  her  check  or  touched  her  hair  would  have 
been  a  natural  demonstration  of  his  feelings  which 
would  not  have  startled  her  in  the  least.     He  knew 


GREEK  AND   ITALIAN  59 

that;  he  could  see  that  she  had  not  a  glimmer  of 
sex  about  her;  she  had  the  mind,  the  pure  passion, 
the  preoccupation  of  a  boy.  To  kiss,  to  be  kissed, 
would  have  been  nothing  to  her,  as  simple  as  eating 
your  dinner.  It  is  not  to  be  set  down  to  his  credit 
that  he  respected  her  young  confidence:  he  would 
have  been  ashamed  to  be  praised  for  that.  It  was 
simply  impossible  for  him  to  do  anything  else  than 
respect  her.  He  would  as  soon  have  laid  lover's 
hands  upon  the  Madonna. 

And  so  passed  in  and  out  three  weeks  of  May 
1894 — weeks,  for  him,  of  glamour,  enchantment, 
and  hidden  choirs,  and,  for  her,  weeks  of  shyly 
stirring  thoughts,  and  of  dawning  wonder  for  her 
young  eyes. 

As  for  Greek  and  Italian,  you  don't  acquire  a 
smattering  of  these  literatures  in  three  weeks, 
though  you  may  be  kindled.  He  gave  her  rhap- 
sodies from  each,  stormed  out  choruses  from  the 
Agamemnon  and  Seve7t  against  Thebes,  paraphrased 
Andromache's  lament  and  Nausicaa's  entertain- 
ment of  the  travel-spent  Ithacan;  translated  for 
her  the  whole  of  the  Vita  Nuova,  and  guided  her 
faltering  tongue  through  a  canto  or  more  of  the 
Purgatorio.  And  he  made  great  play  with  the 
Anthology,  and  proved  to  her  eagerly,  not  without 
a  break  in  his  voice,  how  near  Landor  got  to  it 
with  Rose  Aylmer  and  other  enchanting  strains. 
Here  and  there  she  got  a  perfumed  snatch  of  the 
rightful    Hippocrene:     Plato's    Star  gazer    for    one, 


6o  OPEN  COUNTRY 

and  that  noble  compliment  of  a  nameless  lover, 
i.    xliv. — 

Sweet  flowers  for  thee,  my  fragrant  one, 
The  grace  is  theirs,  not  thine. 
Fragrance  from  thee  makes  fragrant  them. 
As  from  thine  eyes  they  shine. 

A  paraphrase  at  the  best.  But  he  avoided  their 
lovers'  cries,  and  kept  himself  to  their  prayers. 
Here,  it  must  be  owned,  he  was  not  so  ingenuous 
as  he  might  have  been.  In  their  voices  he  praised 
his  own  Hymnia;  Artemis  of  the  Haven  was  by 
his  side,  touching  him  as  he  read;  Artemis  of  the 
Ways  walked  them  with  him.  He  had  as  many 
names  for  her  as  a  Catholic  for  the  Virgin  Mary, 
and  could  justify  them  all  out  of  the  poets. 

As  to  these,  and  their  near  relation  to  herself, 
Sanchia  was  obtuse.  But  she  got  some  fragrant 
snatches  from  that  nosegay  of  poets,  and  I  think  a 
hazy  kind  of  suspicion  that  a  heathen  Goddess,  to 
a  heathen,  meant  a  good  deal  more  than  a  pretty 
woman  rather  undressed. 

And  thus  the  day  came  when  Mrs.  Percival 
summoned  her  to  Great  Cumberland  Place,  and 
lessons  in  art  were  feverish,  and  readings  in  the 
poets  suffered  lapse;  and  whole  quarters  of  hours 
passed  with  silence  fallen  upon  the  pair;  and  a  last 
sonnet  to  Hymnia  was  penned  and  recited;  and 
then  an  early  morning  hour  struck  when  she  stole 
out  alone  through  the  dewy  woodlands  to  bid  her 
friend  good-bye. 


CHAPTER  VI 

HOW  HE   WENT  HIS   WAY 

In  Gorston  Thicket,  among  the  glancing  shafts  of 
young  oaks,  by  the  pool  where  first  he  had  loved 
her  body's  beauty,  they  stood  to  their  farewells. 
They  were  simple,  and  he  dared  to  make  them  so. 
For  the  first  few  minutes  they  were  vowed  silently. 
The  friends  stood  side  by  side:  he  had  her  hand, 
she  all  his  heart. 

The  lilies  now  starred  the  black  water  like  a 
galaxy.  ''They  have  all  opened  their  eyes  wide 
for  the  last  of  you,"  he  said. 

Her  smile  was  rather  rueful.  ''No,  it's  for  you. 
You  are  the  first  to  go.  Perhaps  I  shall  see  them 
again." 

"Shall  you?  I  wonder!  I  shall  think  of  you 
here." 

She  accepted  that  as  a  matter  of  course.  "Yes, 
think  of  me  here.     I  shall  come  once  more." 

He  gave  a  flick  to  the  idea — turned  it  lightly 
aside  so  that  it  shouldn't  hit  either  of  them  as  it 
flew.  "You  will?  Then  that's  a  bargain.  You 
shall  come  for  me  and  say  a  prayer  to  the  Nymphs. 
You  believe  in  the  Nymphs  now,  don't  you?" 

She  had  vague  eyes,  seeing  but  not  seeing.    "Yes, 

6i 


62  OPEN  COUNTRY 

I  think  I  believe  in  them.  It's  difficult  to  help  it 
— as  you  explain  them." 

He  looked  about  the  woodland.  "Here  and  now 
one  might  believe  anything.  Personally,  I  believe 
everything." 

This  she  accepted.  "I  know  you  do.  I  begin 
to  understand  it.  I'm  sure  I  believe  more  than  I 
did." 

Now  he  looked  at  her  like  a  teacher.  ''Take  it 
from  me.  You  can't  believe  too  much.  The  ut- 
most stretch  of  your  believing  could  not  hold  a 
fragment  of  the  truth.  This  world  is  almost  inex- 
haustible, small  as  it  is:  but  the  wrappings  of  it,  the 
entourage^' — he  stretched  out  his  arms  wide — "  bound- 
less!— incomprehensible!"  He  stopped,  watching 
her  until  she  thrilled  a  response.  "Yet  here  we  are," 
he  went  on,  "you  and  I — alone  in  it.  'You  and 
I,  sphered  in  solitude' — adventuring  in,  to  see  what 
we  may  light  upon.  Oh,  my  dear,  it's  a  wonderful 
pilgrimage.  I  can  never  get  over  that  feeling — 
of  inexhaustible  adventure,  of  extreme  possibility: 
that  we  may  learn  a  truth — at  any  moment — see 
it  flash  out,  white,  blinding — and  there  we  are,  re- 
warded, fed,  drunken,  and  ready  to  begin  again." 

A  shy,  grateful  glance  rewarded  him  indeed,  the 
flutter  of  an  answering  smile,  and  her  hand  that 
gave  thanks  for  his,  and  nestled.  "It's  very  wonder- 
ful," she  said;  "it  makes  my  heart  beat.  And  it's 
perfectly  true.     But " 

"Wefl,  my  dear?    Well ?" 

"I    feel    it    now,    you    know.     I'm    quite,    quite 


HOW  HE  WENT  HIS  WAY  63 

sure."  A  blue  beam  from  her  eyes  pierced  him. 
"That's  because  of  you.  But  I'm  going  home — 
to  London — and "  Her  high-arched  brows  re- 
vealed the  bleak  prospect,  but  he  could  not  admit 
it  bleak. 

"London,"  he  told  her,  "is  the  most  romantic 
place  in  the  world.  I  don't  know  anything  like 
it  for  stimulating  the  sense.  Think  of  those  miles 
of  shut  doors,  blank  windows!  Think  of  what 
may  be  behind  any  one  of  them — what  prayers, 
what  watching  for  a  sign,  what  love,  what  speech- 
less misery,  what  beginnings,  what  endings!  Oh, 
no,  no,  Sanchia!  you'll  never  faint  in  London." 

She  was  very  doubtful  as  she  thought  of  Great 
Cumberland  Place  and  its  mahogany  and  red- 
flock  papering,  and  Fraiilein  Winkiewicz,  that 
stored  and  costive  Hungarian.  But  she  took  cour- 
age from  his  fire.  "I  shall  try  to  look  at  it  prop- 
erly. I  shall  go  on  with  my  sketching — in  Ken- 
sington Gardens,  perhaps." 

He  nodded  quickly,  smiling.  "That's  a  great 
place — full  of  magic.  You'll  see  things  there — and 
may  believe  what  you  see.  Pan  and  the  Nymphs — 
and  fairies  like  wise  children." 

She  leaned  to  him,  looking  away  over  the  pool. 
"Will  you  write  to  me?" 

He  laughed.  "What  do  you  think?  What  else 
shall  I  do,  do  you  suppose?"  And  then  she  looked 
at  him,  and  made  his  heart  go  faster. 

"Don't  tease  me.  I  know  you  will."  He  let 
go  her  hand — it  had  become  very  necessary. 


64  OPEN  COUNTRY 


UTM 


I'll  bore  you  to  death  with  my  sermons,"  he 
said  briskly. 

The  great  light  that  suddenly  throbbed  and 
filled  the  wood,  and  the  warmth  that  followed  fast, 
made  them  both  look  up.  Upon  the  blue  the  oak- 
crowns  now  were  burning  gold.  Senhouse  bowed 
his  head.     "The  sun  is  up,"  he  said. 

She  bathed  her  face  in  the  new  day;  she  was 
very  serious.     "Is  this  the  end — or  the  beginning?" 

"For  me  it's  the  beginning,"  said  Senhouse. 
"I  think  you'd  better  go  to  church."  His  heart 
was  wailing  for  her;  he  could  hardly  keep  himself 
in  hand. 

She  looked  at  him.     "Shall  I  go  to  church?" 

He  nodded  shortly.  "Yes.  Go  to  church.  Pray 
for  the  pair  of  us.  I  can't  come  with  you  this  time, 
but  the  better  part  of  me  will  be  there."  Then  he 
took  her  lax  hand  up  and  kissed  the  fingers  of  it. 

"  Good-bye,  Queen  Mab.  The  Gods  bless  us  both." 

Her  eyes  were  wide  and  scared.  Her  lips  were 
pale.  "I  shall  ask  them  to,"  she  said.  "Good- 
bye." She  turned  and  walked  quickly  through  the 
woodland,  holding  up  her  white  skirt  in  her  hand. 
She  never  looked  back. 

When  she  was  out  of  sight,  Senhouse  lifted  up 
his  clenched  right  hand.  "O  God,  never  leave 
her — this  young  Saint  of  Yours!"  Thus  he  made 
his  prayer.  Then,  manlike,  he  swore.  "I  suppose 
I'm  a  damned  fool.  I  love  her  utterly.  She's 
straight  out  of  Heaven — drifted  upon  mc  like  a 
snowflake.     And  gone! — to  her  fate!" 


HOW  HE  WENT  HIS   WAY  65 

For  a  time  he  stood,  staring  into  the  pool.  There, 
black  and  lucent,  charged  with  its  memories,  it  lay; 
but  he  had  not  the  courage  to  call  them  up.  He 
knew  what  madness  lurked  behind  such  an  act, 
and  left  the  dangerous  place.  Reaching  his  piled- 
up  cart  and  patient  beast,  he  heard  the  scouring  of 
hoofs  at  a  gallop,  and  laughed.  "Thank  the  Lord, 
here  comes  my  tonic." 

Two  ponies  at  a  stretch,  two  white-jersied  riders, 
two  windmill  arms,  and  then — "Hulloa,  old  Jack! 
Here  we  are!"  They  were  almost  upon  him,  and 
pulled  up  with  a  showering  of  grit. 

The  Dowser  claimed  it.  *'By  a  head,  Percy — 
you  are  a  rotten  rider.  Now  you  owe  me  half-a- 
crown,  and  you'll  jolly  well  pay  up." 

"It  was  a  dead  heat,  of  course."  Percy  was 
flushed  and  indignant.  "Ask  Jack.  Jack,  it  was 
a  dead  heat,  wasn't  it?  Or  did  I  really  win?" 
He  looked  at  his  brother  with  reproof.  "I  believe 
I  did,  you  know.  That's  why  you  claimed  it 
first." 

"Oh,  what  a  sickening  lie!  Chaps  get  flogged 
for  that.  Don't  they.  Jack?  It's  rank  form  to 
get  licked  and  not  take  it.  Any  kid  knows  that — 
except  you." 

Tonic  for  your  left  lovers!  Senhouse  gulped  it 
down,  and  felt  the  better  for  it.  "Shut  up,  you 
two,  and  escort  me  to  the  milestone.  Of  course 
it  was  neck  and  neck.  Now,  gentlemen,  please — 
in  skirmishing  order.  Percy  goes  on  ahead  and 
looks    out    for    the    enemy.     The    convoy    follows, 


66  OPEN  COUNTRY 

and  Dowser  takes  the  rear.  The  enemy  is  very 
active,  gentlemen.     Eyes  skinned,  I  beg  of  you." 

The  boys  were  instantly  pioneers.  I  wish  I 
could  exhibit  the  infinite  solemnity,  the  mature 
cunning  with  which  Percy  made  this  confidence. 
"I  think  I  ought  to  tell  you,  Captain  Senhouse, 
that  I  believe  I  saw  one  of  them  as  we  joined  you. 
She  was  in  white — and  in  that  direction.  And  she 
was  retreating,  having  made  observations." 

''It  was  only  Sanchia,  you  ass!"  cried  Dow^ser. 
"Going  to  church,  of  course." 

"Oh,  I  know  that  quite  well.  Thanks  awfully. 
She  was  going  to  pray  for  our  capture,  of  course." 

"I  don't  think  she  need  do  that,  somehow,"  said 
Senhouse  drily.  Then  he  woke  up.  "Now,  gentle- 
men, for  the  honour  of  the  flag;  for  Queen  and 
Country;  for  England,  Home,  and  Beauty — Eyes 
front!     Forward!" 

Dowser  reined  up  and  saluted,  stiff  as  a  rod; 
Percy  spurred  forward,  craning  his  neck;  Sen- 
house  took  his  seat  on  the  tilt-cart  shaft,  and  the 
convoy  moved  on. 

The  great  game  was  played  out  to  the  very  limits 
of  the  enemy's  country,  which  was  agreed  to  end 
at  the  second  milestone.  That  would  give  them  just 
time  to  get  back  to  breakfast,  but  only  just.  "Those 
silly  old  Paddle-boats  are  still  there,  you  see,"  Percy 
had  explained,  condoning  his  apparent  want  of 
heart.  He  referred  to  the  Marquis  and  Marchioness 
of  Badlesmere,  his  uncle  and  aunt  by  the  mother's 
side.     Therefore,  at  the  second  milestone,  they  de- 


HOW  HE  WENT  HIS  WAY  67 

parted  with  many  a  whoop  of  defiance,  and  Sen- 
house  took  up  his  journey  the  better  for  their  rough 
music. 

He  was  happy,  but  sentimental — able  to  laugh 
at  himself  and  glory  in  his  folly  at  the  same  time. 
He  rolled  a  cigarette  and  looked  it  over,  whistling 
softly.  Then  he  smiled  on  one  side  of  his  face. 
''Now  to  please  her — "  and  he  threw  it  into  the 
ditch.  ''  God  bless  her!  Oh,  Heaven,  how  exquisite 
she  is!"  But  he  could  triumph  in  her  now;  he 
was  himself  again.  She  was  indeed  a  Revelation: 
so  steady  a  judgment,  so  confident,  and  so  young! 
That  she  was  beautiful,  and  looked  delicate,  and 
was  not  so,  but  added  to  the  marvel  she  made  up. 
A  woman — a  girl — may  be  as  lovely  as  a  shell,  and 
as  empty:  it's  when  she  informs  a  lovely  mind  that 
she  becomes  a  miracle.  Sanchia  had  made  a  seer 
of  him.  He  passed  men  and  women,  wayfarers  on 
the  road,  and  nodded  back  their  greetings,  and  was 
compassionate.  "You  poor,  poor  devil,  who  go 
bent-backed  to  your  work,  and  don't  know  Sanchia, 
the  wonder  of  the  world!"  A  young  butcher  and 
his  lass  drove  briskly  by,  handfasted  in  a  cart.  "Ah, 
you  lucky  couple,  well  for  you  that  you  haven't  met 
with  her!  You'd  give  it  up  in  despair."  It  is  to 
be  noted  of  him,  as  a  constant  characteristic,  that 
he  was  most  flippant  when  his  heart  was  bleeding. 
In  all  his  eloquence — if  he  was  really  serious — he 
reached  a  point  where  he  stopped  dead,  as  if  con- 
scious of  the  futility  of  utterance,  and  turned  him- 
self off  with  a  half-jest. 


68  OPEN  COUNTRY 

Anemones  in  a  woody  hollow  caught  his  eye, 
and  he  stopped  his  horse,  and  descended  to  pay 
them  his  vow^s.  They  gleamed  up  from  their  dark 
lacery  of  leaves.  Her  toes  had  been  that  colour — 
rose  and  white — when  she  had  drawn  them  fresh 
from  the  water.  Often  and  often  he  had  wondered 
at  them,  for  she  loved  to  bathe  her  feet.  Water 
seemed  always  irresistible  to  Sanchia;  she  seemed 
to  smell  it  out.  That  was  natural.  Artemis  haunted 
streams  and  rushy  pools.  She  was  the  Lady  of 
the  Lake.  Lovely,  pure,  glowing,  starry  flowers! 
They  were  hers  by  right,  for,  like  them,  she  was 
pale  and  fragile  and  shy — and  yet  very  strong,  and 
could  be  bold  when  need  was.  And  she  was  a  Saint. 
She  left  him  to  bow  her  head  in  a  church.  He  shut 
his  eyes  and  could  see  her  kneeling  there,  or  look- 
ing up  at  the  Cross  and  candles  over  the  altar. 
She  had  prayed  for  him  while  he  was  larking  with 
the  boys!     God  bless  her  always,  anyhow! 

After  all,  he  was  dignified  above  all  men,  in  that 
he  alone  could  see  what  she  was.  Let  him  not 
forget  that.  She  went  her  ways  among  them  and 
their  womenkind;  she  was  Sanchia  Percival,  or 
Sanchia,  and  not  one  of  them  knew  what  more  she 
was,  or  what  lay  shrouded,  glowing  under  the  veil, 
but  only  he — he,  Senhouse,  who  hadn't  sixpence 
to  his  name,  and  chose  to  sleep  under  a  hedge. 
This  made  him  a  great  swell;  he  could  not  but 
acknowledge  that  to  himself.  In  one  flash,  when 
she  had  stood  in  her  white  gown  by  the  pool,  he 


HOW  HE  WENT  HIS  WAY  69 

had  "discerned  the  God."  That  was  a  point  in 
his  favour;  that  hfted  him  out  of  the  ordinary  run; 
and  he  felt  that  he  could  go  about  his  business  the 
better  for  it.  He  was  pretty  sure  that  he  would 
paint  the  better,  write  the  better,  teach  the  world  of 
slaves  the  better  what  dogs'  lives  they  chose  to  lead. 
But — ah,  the  world  was  empty!  His  heart  ached; 
there  was  wailing  in  his  ears.  He  was  alone,  should 
not  see  her  till  who  knew  when.  And  every  shuffle 
forward  of  Rosinante  took  him  farther  from  his 
glory  and  his  stay.  He  had  to  smoke  a  pipe  over 
this,  and  talk  with  a  couple  of  hedgers  at  their  din- 
ner in  a  ditch.  ''Mr.  John,"  they  called  him, 
knowing  him  or  his  equipage  by  repute.  With 
them  he  munched  his  bread  and  cheese,  and  shared 
his  ale,  while  he  discussed  his  whereabouts  and  his 
whitherwards.  He  had  nowhere  in  particular  to 
go;  he  was  even  less  hampered  than  usual,  for 
you  don't  plant  in  May,  but  look  rather  to  reap. 
The  Hunstanton  road  forked  off,  they  told  him,  a 
mile  or  so  on,  and  he  quickly  chose  for  the  sea,  since 
Artemis  haunts  the  water.  There  would  be  a  waft 
of  her  there;  that  shiver  of  the  little  waves,  that 
cloud  on  the  still  surface,  would  hint  at  her  silent 
flitting.  He  explained  this  to  his  friends,  who  nodded 
sagely,  with  a  "So  I've  heard  say,"  assuming  the 
Goddess  to  be  a  kind  of  water-fowl.  "It's  not  so 
much  a  bird,  you  know,  as  an  Influence,"  he  in- 
sisted. One  of  the  hedgers  shifted  his  quid  of 
cheese  and  jerked  his  head.  "You  might  put  it 
at  that,  sir,  and  not  be  much  out." 


70  OPEN   COUNTRY 

It  was  a  long  road  to  the  shore;  he  did  not  get 
there  until  close  upon  midnight,  having  no  sense 
whatever  of  time.  There,  finally,  he  sat  brooding 
over  the  curtained  water  under  the  stars,  musing 
upon  vacancy,  all  the  singing  out  of  him,  "he  and 
his  pain  together." 

He  had  no  desire  to  sleep,  nor  once  considered 
the  possibility,  but  sat  on,  knees  to  chest,  chin  upon 
them.  His  bony  fingers  clasped  his  shins,  his 
burning  eyes  were  fixed  upon  a  point  of  light  far 
out  at  sea.  If  he  thought,  he  knew  not  his  thought; 
if  he  suffered,  was  unconscious  of  it.  But  when 
the  first  shore  bird  called  startlingly  the  warning, 
and  he  saw  the  faint  stirrings  of  light  in  the  east,  he 
found  himself  wrangling  out  his  reasons  for  the  life 
he  led — putting  them  before  her,  justifying  himself. 
She,  the  sister  of  Apollo,  like  Apollo,  was  ''cloistered 
for  a  reason";  but  here  was  he  adrift,  shut  out  by 
his  own  choice  from  the  strongholds  of  men.  His 
brain  fired  and  became  feverishly  alive;  he  knew 
that  he  was  eloquent,  was  certain  he  could  get  her 
sympathies.  His  need  was  burning;  he  must  have 
her  on  his  side.  His  world  was  empty  indeed  if 
her  slim  figure  came  not  to  fill  it. 

With  the  first  light  he  wrote  her  his  first  letter. 


CHAPTER  VII 

THE  RETURN  TO  GREAT  CUMBERLAND  PLACE 

Saddled  horses  were  at  the  door  when  the 
brougham  arrived,  bringing  Sanchia  home.  Miss 
Melusine  and  Miss  Victoria  were  about  to  ride, 
it  was  told.  Down  the  stair  they  came,  habited, 
booted,  hatted,  and  gloved  proper.  Vicky's  *'Hul- 
loa,  Sancie,  we're  off,"  and  Melusine's  ''Darling, 
how  sweet  to  have  you  back,"  were  also  proper, 
in  the  herald's  way  of  speaking,  Vicky's  had  glad- 
ness behind  the  bare  words,  and  Melusine's  meant 
nothing  at  all.  But  they  were  very  charming,  and 
she  looked  lovely  in  her  habit — like  a  swan. 

Vicky  lingered  in  the  hall  to  whisper,  ''Thank 
Heaven,  Pintail  isn't  coming.  He's  talking  to 
Hawise  about  his  family.  Look  out,  they're  in 
the  drawing-room.  Mamma's  in  the  morning- 
room,  writing  letters,  of  course."  Then  she  looked 
sharply  at  her  little  sister,  "Did  you  have  a  good 
time?" 

Sanchia's  answering  beam  was  guarded.  "Aw- 
fully good,"  she  said.     "I  really  learned  something,'* 

"So  did  we,"  said  Vicky — but  Sanchia  never 
blenched — "from  mamma.  You  had  a  marquis 
there !    And  a  Lord  William !     Really,  very  swagger. ' ' 

71 


72  OPEN  COUNTRY 

Sanchia  denied  them.  ''They  weren't  with  us  at 
all.  They  were  nearly  two  miles  off.  You  had 
to  get  to  them  through  woods.  And  I  only  saw 
them  once;  and  all  the  marchioness  said  to  me  was, 
'What  perfect  weather.'" 

"But  Lord  William,"  Vicky  persisted.  "Mamma 
said  that  he  was  greatly  struck.  I  thought  it  was 
a  clear  case." 

Sanchia's  lip  curled  back,  in  the  Greek  fashion. 
"He's  over  forty,  and  blinks  for  three  minutes  be- 
fore he  speaks.  It's  a  new  way  of  stammering. 
But  he's  quite  a  nice  man." 

Vicky  paused,  then  flashed:  "Who  was  your 
favourite  man?" 

And  then  Melusine  intervened  with,  "Darling, 
shall  we  put  ofT  our  ride?    Wouldn't  you  rather?" 

And  what  else  could  have  been  at  once  so  charm- 
ing and  so  effective?  Vicky  postponed  her  prob- 
ings. 

The  morning-room  revealed  Mrs.  Percival's  in- 
dustrious back  and  the  vigorous  squeaking  of  her 
quill.  It  was  not  her  habit  to  unbend  to  either  of 
her  younger  daughters.  Philippa,  Mrs.  Tompsett- 
King,  was  attended  to  because  she  had  a  way  of 
compelling  attention;  Hawise  was  to  marry  a  bar- 
onet; Melusine  was  the  beloved:  for  the  other  two, 
discipline  must  be  maintained,  the  fine  austerity  of 
a  Christian  home.  But  at  Sanchia's  near  approach, 
and  "Here  I  am,  mamma,"  the  busy  matron  did 
look  up,  and  on  the  glowing  cheek  bestowed  a  peck 
which  told  of  a  very  cold  nose,  and  seemed  to  give 


GREAT  CUMBERLAND   PLACE  73 

the  He  to  her,  "Well,  my  darling,  welcome  home!" 
Slowly,  then,  Mrs.  Percival  wiped  her  pen  and  laid 
it  in  its  appointed  place;  she  seemed  deliberately  to 
prepare  herself  to  be  interested.  Sanchia,  seated  be- 
side the  escritoire,  yielded  her  hand  to  her  mother's 
pair,  without  enthusiasm.  Her  smile,  poor  child, 
was  perfunctory,  and  if  her  eyes  showed  confident, 
why,  they  told  fibs. 

And  how  was  dear  Lady  Mauleverer?  Mrs.  Per- 
cival must  be  told.  ''And  Grace,  dear,  cheerful 
Grace?"  Sanchia  must  write  a  grateful  letter.  It 
would  be  well  to  catch  the  five  o'clock  post.  Mrs. 
Percival  herself  would  add  a  line  if  she  might  be 
allowed.  She  loved  all  who  loved  her  children.  It 
must  have  been  agreeable  at  Gorston;  the  gardens 
were  famous;  the  Gorston  orchids  had  a  cachet  all 
their  own.  To  meet  such  people  as  Lord  and  Lady 
Badlesmere  was  a  privilege;  and  the  church,  Mrs. 
Percival  understood,  lay  within  the  park.  And  good, 
sound  church  teaching;  a  daily  Eucharist!  Excel- 
lent, indeed.  Lord  William  Botetort  must  have  been 
delightful.  He  had  helped  Sanchia  with  her  sketch- 
ing? No?  Oh,  that  had  been  Mr.  Senhouse! 
Who  was  staying  in  the  neighbourhood  ?  Lord  Wil- 
liam was,  of  course.  Lord  Badlesmere's  brother, 
and  brother-in-law,  consequently,  of  Mr.  Charnock. 
Lady  Alexandra  had  been  a  very  earnest  church- 
woman.  Mrs.  Percival  had  met  her  once  or  twice 
on  a  Committee  of  the  M.A.B.Y.S.  The  Mayhys,  we 
call  it. 

After  this,  as  upon  a  flood  long  pent  up,  but  now 


74  OPEN  COUNTRY 

irresistible,  came  home  confidences.  "Sir  George  is 
here — up  for  a  Railway  Bill — and  is  charming.  Oh, 
charmingl  Chivalrous  to  a  fault;  it  is  a  privilege  to 
converse  with  him.  He  dined  with  us  last  night. 
Philippa  and  Septimus  came,  and  that  young  Mr. 
Chevenix:  no  one  else.  That  rather  difficult  Mr. 
Etherington,  your  father's  old  friend,  came  in  after 
dinner.  Rather  against  my  judgment — but,  how- 
ever— Philippa  quite  lost  her  heart  to  Sir  George. 
'One  of  our  Conquerors,'  he  may  well  be  called. 
She  dubbed  him  that  as  she  left  us  last  night:  you 
know  her  way.  'But  you,  dear  lady,  have  led  cap- 
tivity captive,'  he  said.  He  kissed  her  hand.  Our 
Hawise  is  overflowing  with  happiness.  They  are  in 
the  drawing-room." 

Sanchia's  plain  way  with  such  monologue  was  per- 
haps too  chilling.  She  swallowed  it  whole — like  a 
grey  powder.  Her  mother  occasionally  had  to  com- 
plain of  her  irresponsiveness.  It  was  the  child's  only 
weapon  of  defence  against  ennui,  and  against  the 
seed  of  something  more  serious  which  she  could  now 
and  again  detect  in  her  own  heart.  Was  this  sort 
of  thing — could  it  be — quackery?  Horrible  doubt; 
unanswerable  by  a  pious  child.  She  was  still  baby 
enough  to  nourish  the  belief  that  her  parents  were 
above  criticism;  at  any  rate,  she  dreaded  the  im- 
piety, and  shirked  the  time  when  criticism  must  be 
applied.  Therefore  what  else  could  she  do  but  hear 
and  not  understand,  see  and  refuse  to  believe? 
Vicky — two  years  older — in  her  brisk  tones  said 
dreadful  things  about  mamma.     She  had  said  once 


GREAT   CUMBERLAND   PLACE  75 

that  mamma  loved  two  things  in  the  world  more  than 
all  the  others — the  Lord,  and  a  lord-  Sanchia  re- 
membered now  the  surging  heat  that  enwrapped  her 
at  that  saying.  Her  cheeks  had  felt  scalding.  But 
Vicky  never  could  resist  a  joke. 

Her  father's  six  o'clock  greeting,  ''Well,  my  puss, 
well,  my  dear  one — well,  well,  well!"  his  hug  and 
kisses,  made  amends  for  early  chills,  the  shiver  of 
isolation  felt  by  a  stranded  little  divinity.  A  happy 
hour  succeeded — in  his  smoking-room — on  his  cush- 
ioned, satisfactory  knees,  and  wreathed  in  the  blue 
spirals  of  his  cigar.  "Now,  my  darling — all  about 
it,"  was  the  invitation,  and  she  told  him  more  than 
she  could  tell  to  anybody  else.  In  her  charmed  re- 
lation Lord  William  never  showed  his  noble  head, 
Lord  and  Lady  Badlesmere  were  not.  But  there 
was  much  of  Percy  and  the  Dowser,  and  much  of 
Mr.  Senhouse.  ''He's  very  extraordinary,  you  know, 
papa;  I  think  perhaps  you  would  say  he  was  too 
extraordinary.  I  don't  know.  I've  thought  a  great 
deal  about  it.  The  tent,  you  know,  and  the  cart. 
It  sounds  the  only  possible  way  of  living  when  he 
talks  about  it;  but — his  people  are  quite  rich.  His 
father  has  a  coal  mine  somewhere;  he  always  calls 
him  'the  Alderman'  or  the  'dear  old  coal  merchant.' 
But  he's  very  fond  of  his  father,  I  can  see." 

"I  like  him  for  that,  Sancie.  I've  got  a  weakness 
for  that  sort  of  thing."  Mr.  Percival  stroked  her 
hair,  and  she  lifted  up  her  head  and  kissed  him. 
"But  what  the  deuce  does  he  live  in  a  tent  for?" 


76  OPEN  COUNTRY 

"He  says,  you  see,  that  four  walls  strangle  him, 
and " 

"Yes,  yes,  chicken,"  Mr.  Percival  put  in,  "but  a 
tent's  got  walls,  I  suppose." 

"Yes,  but  you  can  pull  them  down  in  a  second, 
and  pack  them  in  your  cart,  and  be  somewhere  new 
every  night." 

"God  bless  me!"  from  Mr.  Percival;  "that  would 
never  suit  me." 

"Yes,  it  would,  you  see,  because  he  says  that  the 
great  thing  to  avoid  in  this  life  is  rootsy 

Mr.  Percival  was  dazed.  "Roots,  my  love?"  he 
asked  faintly. 

"He  calls  it  hamper  sometimes.  He  says,  there's 
top  hamper  and  bottom  hamper,  and  that  he  doesn't 
know  which  is  worse — to  be  clogged  about  the  head 
or  the  feet.     I  do  see  what  he  means,  but " 

"There's  a  deal  of  'but'  about  your  Mr.  Sen- 
house,  darling,"  said  Mr.  Percival;  "but  I  like  him 
for  liking  his  father.  That  must  be  Senhouse  of 
Dingeley  Main.  Coal  merchant  indeed!  God  bless 
my  soul,  I  wish  I  could  be  that  sort  of  a  coal  mer- 
chant. It's  every  penny  of  ten  thousand  a  year.  I 
don't  think  your  friend  will  have  to  live  in  a  tent  by 
and  by,  Sancie." 

"Oh,  yes,  he  will,  papa.  He  hasn't  had  any 
money  from  his  father  for  ten  years,  and  never  will. 
He  lives  on  five  shillings  a  week — and  earns  it." 

"Then  he's  a  confounded  fool,  my  dear,"  said  Mr. 
Percival  with  confidence. 

■He's  the  cleverest  person  I  ever  met,"  Sanchia 


<<■ 


GREAT  CUMBERLAND   PLACE  77 

returned,  "and  the  kindest.  You  can  say  anything 
to  him — or  nothing — and  he  understands.  You 
mustn't  abuse  him,  dear  one.  You  don't  know  how 
he  helped  me.     I  think  he's  perfectly  splendid." 

It  didn't  take  much  to  capture  papa.  He  was  so 
easy  that  it  was  hardly  fair.  He  caught  her  round 
the  waist  and  clasped  her  close.  "My  little  girl,  I'll 
love  him  if  you  ask  me  to!  I  do  love  him  for  loving 
my  Sancie." 

"I  don't  want  you  to  love  him,  of  course,"  she 
told  him,  snuggled  in  his  whiskers,  "and  I  don't 
think  he  does  love  me.  But  he's  simply  the  kindest 
and  wisest  person  I  ever  met  in  my  life." 

"Kindest!  Wisest!  Oho!"  said  Mr.  Percival, 
pinching  her  ear.  "And  where  do  I  come  in  at  that 
rate?" 

"Dearest,  you  don't  want  to  come  in,"  said  Miss 
Sanchia;  "you're  there  already." 

Vicky's  brisk  entry,  dressed  for  dinner,  put  an  end 
to  confidences.  "Hulloa,  papa,"  she  said.  "You 
dear  old  thing,  you'll  be  late  for  Pintail.  He's  com- 
ing to  dinner  again — to  talk  about  his  family.  Isn't 
it  awful?" 

"My  dear,"  said  Mr.  Percival,  "after  all,  he's 
Hawise's  affair." 

"Hawise,"  said  Vicky,  "  is  hke  a  jelly-fish.  Plodged 
against  his  waistcoat.  I  don't  believe  she  likes  him 
a  bit.  She  sticks  there  by  inertia,  because  she  was 
put  there.     Sancie  will  hate  him." 

Sanchia  lifted  her  brows.  "You  seem  to  think 
I've  never  seen  the  man.     Of  course  I  have.     He 


78  OPEN   COUNTRY 

thought  I  was  twelve  and  gave  me  a  skipping-rope. 
It  might  have  been  a  doll.  I  don't  hate  him  at  all. 
I  thought  he  was  rather  dreary;  but  I  assure  you  he 
doesn't  exist — for  me." 

''He  doesn't  want  to,"  said  Vicky.  "He  exists  for 
himself." 

"Tut!  you  monkeys."  Mr.  Percival  was  beating 
ash  from  his  waistcoat.  "I  wonder  you're  not 
ashamed  of  yourselves.  He's  a  man  of  title  and  a 
gentleman,  and  your  mother  esteems  him.  That 
ought  to  be  enough  for  the  likes  of  you." 

"He's  mamma's  third  baronet,"  Vicky  began;  but 
Mr.  Percival  was  loyal. 

"Ducky,"  he  said,  with  a  hand  on  Vicky's  shoulder, 
"don't  talk  like  that.  It  won't  do,  my  dear.  It 
don't  sound  very  pretty." 

Vicky  was  hushed.  "I  know  it  doesn't,  papa — 
but  I  can't  help  it." 

"Oh,  but  we  must,  you  know,  we  must  indeed. 
Now  I  must  get  into  my  swallow-tails."  With  that 
he  went,  and  Vicky  admitted  that  papa  was  an  angel. 
Sanchia  said  nothing.  What  was  the  use?  Of 
course  he  was  an  angel.  But  mamma — after  Lady 
Mauleverer!  And  Sir  George — after  Jack!  And, 
oh — after  Gorston  Thicket,  Great  Cumberland 
Place! 

In  the  drawing-room  Sir  George  Pinwell  offered 
her  a  nerveless  hand,  and  a  How-d'ye-do  which  was 
directed  to  some  remote  corner  of  the  room.  He 
neither  saw  her  nor  waited  for  her  reply,  but  turned 
with  a  deferential  droop  of  the  shoulders  to  what 


GREAT  CUMBERLAND   PLACE  79 

Mrs.  Percival  had  been  saying  about  the  Bishop  of 

.     He  was  a  tall  young  man,  with  a  round,  pink 

face,  pale  eyes  set  a  fleur  de  tete,  and  an  extremely 
high-bridged,  pointed  nose.  His  moustache  was  like 
a  blonde  cascade.  He  was  apt  to  close  his  eyes  when 
he  talked,  and  allow  his  eyelids  to  flicker  over  them 
as  if  contact  hurt  them.  In  manner  he  was  bland; 
he  never  contradicted  anything,  but  let  it  pass  un- 
challenged, as  deplorable  in  taste.  His  opinions, 
when  he  pronounced  them,  were  grounded  upon 
taste,  and  were  intended  to  be  final.  The  gentle 
Hawise  seldom  spoke  to  him,  but  occasionally  glanced 
up,  with  the  softest,  bluest  eyes  you  ever  saw  in  your 
life. 

He  did  talk,  there's  no  doubt,  about  his  family. 
"Then,  of  course,  there  was  Sir  Marmaduke;  I 
ought  not  to  pass  him  by.  We  like  Sir  Marmaduke 
— we  have  a  little  cultus " 

Vicky  asked,  ''What's  a  little  cultus,  George?" 
from  across  the  table;  and  he  winced. 

"A  little  private  worship,  shall  I  say?  A  little 
veneration "     His  eyelids  seemed  most  painful. 

"That's  like  the  Japanese,  isn't  it?"  Vicky  said 
to  Sanchia.  "  They  worship  their  ancestors.  I 
think  it's  a  jolly  religion." 

"You  know  the  Badlesmeres,  George,  of  course," 
Mrs.  Percival  said  bravely,  meaning  to  break  fresh 
ground.  "Sancjiia's  been  seeing  something  of  them 
at  Gorston." 

Sir  George  lifted  his  head,  shut  his  eyes,  and  put 
a  finger  between  the  points  of  his  collar.     "Badles- 


8o  OPEN  COUNTRY 

mere  I  certainly  know.  Lady  Badlesmere — I  think 
— not  quite  so  well.  I  was  at  school  with  Badlesmere 
— and  another  of  them.     I  almost  forget." 

"It  may  have  been  Lord  William — who  was  an- 
other of  Sanchia's  neighbours,"  said  Mrs.  Percival. 

Sir  George  flickered,  then  bowed.  "Thank  you. 
It  was.  William  Botetort."  And  Vicky  nudged 
Sanchia,  and  whispered,  "There's  a  nuance  for  you." 
She  really  was  rather  dreadful. 

He  returned  to  his  family,  for  Hawise's  advantage. 
"Sir  Marmaduke,  you  must  know,  fought  for  his 
King  at  Naseby.  It  was — finely,  I  think — said  of 
him,  upon  one  occasion " 

And,  seeing  him  now  in  secure  possession  of  two 
families,  we  may  leave  him  expounding. 


CHAPTER  VIII 

VOICE  FROM  THE   OPEN  IN  JUSTIFICATION 

She  got  her  letter  before  she  left  Gorston.  It  had 
been  in  her  pocket  when  she  reached  home,  and  had 
often  been  read.  She  had  not  yet  answered  it,  how- 
ever, and  did  not  in  fact  answer  it  for  a  week.  She 
was  alw^s  so  reticent,  even  to  herself,  and  so  dis- 
creet that  one  doesn't  know  how  she  took  it.  Signs 
of  hurt  are  visible  in  it  to  the  experienced  eye.  The 
pleasure  he  takes,  for  instance,  in  the  use  of  her 
name — that's  one.  Another  is  his  plain  anxiety  to 
prove  to  her  his  unconcern.  Here,  anyhow,  it  is  for 
the  interested  reader  to  judge. 

12th  May. 

I  am  thirty  miles  away  from  you,  Sanchia,  en- 
camped upon  the  edge  of  a  glimmering  marsh,  await- 
ing dawn  to  take  up  my  bearings.  All  about  me  the 
shore  birds  are  piping  their  wild,  sad  music;  most 
melodious  of  them  all,  the  curlew;  how  I  love  that 
bird!  You  never  heard  the  little  owls,  did  you,  at 
San  Gimignano:  plaintive  trebles  fretting  to  each 
other  in  the  night  ?  They  are  said  to  be  the  souls  of 
two  murdered  lads,  Rossellino  and  Primerano  by 
name.  I  am  sure  Pythagoras  was  right  concerning 
wild-fowl,  and  that  the  soul  of  my  grand-dam  may 

8i 


82  OPEN  COUNTRY 

fitly  inhabit  a  bird.  I  forget  whose  moan  the 
Greeks  heard  in  the  curlew's  cry :  some  robbed  young 
life's,  no  doubt.     But  I  wander. 

I  wish  to  report,  Sanchia,  please,  that  I  have 
travelled  since  I  left  you  at  daybreak  (yesterday), 
with  a  long  rest  at  noon,  and  am  now  going  to  bed 
in  my  sack,  for  it's  too  dark  yet,  and  I'm  too  sleepy, 
to  pitch  a  tent.  Besides,  it's  close  and  steamy.  I 
think  that  I  can  smell  the  rain,  as,  saving  your 
presence  (but  I  know  you'll  laugh),  I  have  the  knack 
of  doing.  Perhaps  you'll  remember,  please,  that  I 
did  it  on  the  day  of  the  Oulton  picnic;  and  who 
turned  up  a  nose,  and  left  a  cloak  behind,  and  would 
have  got  a  wet  skin  if  it  hadn't  been  for  a  masterful 
Anarchist  and  his  jacket?  Saint  Martin  was  beat 
that  time;  for  he  divided  his  jacket,  whereas — so 
there's  for  you,  pert  maid. 

Percy  and  the  Dowser  came  pelting  after  me,  and 
took  me  on  to  the  second  milestone.  We  played 
Pioneers  through  the  enemy's  country.  Percy  re- 
ported you  as  having  been  seen  on  the  way  to  church. 
Keen  as  mustard,  they  were,  to  the  very  end.  Did 
you  meet  either  of  them,  I  wonder?  No — of  course 
you  didn't.  You  went  home  through  the  woods,  like 
a  respectable  Dryad,  I  know, 

I  meant  to  have  told  you,  but  had  other  things  to 
think  about,  that  Charnock,  after  dinner,  had  drawn 
me  awfully  aside,  and,  in  a  whisper  which  could  have 
been  heard  from  Grascby  to  Colehampton,  as  good 
as  said  what  he  thought  about  me  and  my  deplorable 
way  of  life.     He's  done  that  before  often  enough. 


VOICE  FROM  THE   OPEN  83 

This  was  what  he  called  a  "special  appeal."  He 
looked  what  an  ass  he  thought  me.  That  I  should 
renounce  six  hundred  a  year  (to  begin  with)  and  a 
certain  share  in  the  colliery  for  wandering  by  the 
hedgerows  on  what  I  can  pick  up!  He  had  no  words 
to  voice  his  thoughts.  They  lay  too  deep  for  tears 
— or  jeers — or  swears.  He  said  that  Lady  Badles- 
mere  had  spoken  about  me;  she  thought  it  such  a 
pity.  Poor  old  chap,  with  his  Stake  in  the  County, 
and  Vested  Interests,  and  Seat  in  Parliament;  with 
his  hounds  and  his  horses  at  break  of  day,  men- 
servants  (aJl  touching  their  hats),  maid-servants  (all 
bobbing),  boys  at  Eton,  family  pew, — imagine  how 
he  chafes.  I  tell  you,  I  irritate  him  to  madness;  he 
can't  stand  it.  He's  fond  of  me,  too,  you  know, 
which  makes  it  worse;  but  he  doesn't  want  to  re- 
member that  I  live.  It's  a  tarnish  on  his  prosperity. 
It  mildews  his  roses,  and  blights  the  hops  that  make 
the  beer  by  which  he  lives  and  fares  softly.  If  I 
argue  with  him,  he  foams  at  the  mouth.  So  I 
laughed  at  him,  and  made  him  give  me  a  cigarette. 
That  soothed  him.  It  had  a  gold  tip,  and  was  very 
spluttery.  You  know  the  kind.  Bond  Street.  He'll 
be  better  now  I'm  gone. 

So  will  you,  my  lady,  perhaps.  I  think  that — 
once  or  twice — I  scared  you;  indeed,  I  know  that  I 
did.  I've  seen  it  in  your  eyebrows,  and  in  your  eyes 
too.  The  grey  goes  lighter  and  the  iris-rings  con- 
tract when  you're  really  scared.  I  don't  say  that 
you  think  me  mad;  I'll  put  it  that,  to  you,  I'm  un- 
accountable.    You  think  it  all  rather  a  pity,  and 


84  OPEN   COUNTRY 

that  it  would  really  be  more  comfortable  jf  you 
could  be  sure  of  me  in  a  large  stone  box,  with  a 
carriage-drive  and  entrance-lodge,  and  a  tidy  old 
woman  to  bend  her  knees  whenever  she  opens  my 
worship  a  gate.  Hey?  Confess,  Sanchia,  con- 
fess. And  then  my  painting  should  be  a  gentle- 
manly amusement,  not  a  livelihood — shouldn't  it 
now?  Why  should  I  sell  my  wits  when  I've  got  a 
rich  father  and  a  family  coal-mine?  Why  not  put 
on  a  black  Melton  coat  and  square-topped  felt  hat, 
and  go  to  church  of  a  Sunday,  like  a  Christian  or  an 
ordinary  man  ?  My  dear,  shall  we  reason  together  ? 
Shall  we  have  it  out?  I've  told  you  all  of  it  before 
— by  fits;  but  I  feel  your  scare  on  me  now,  and  can't 
stand  it  at  a  distance. 

Every  man  must  seek  salvation  his  own  way. 
That's  all  I'm  doing,  upon  my  honour. 

Let's  clear  the  air.  What  precisely  do  I  mean  by 
salvation,  or,  for  that  matter,  what  do  you  mean  by 
it?  (I'm  talking  of  this  world  now,  remember. 
Perhaps  I'll  have  a  go  at  your  reverence  about  the 
I .  other,  some  day.)  Well,  I'll  tell  you.  According  to 
me,  salvation  in  this  world  is  the  power  of  using  every 
faculty  we  have  to  the  full — every  available  muscle 
to  the  highest  tension,  every  ounce  of  brain  to  the 
last  drop,  every  emotion  to  the  piercing  and  swoon- 
ing point,  every  sense  to  an  acuteness  so  subtle  that 
you  are  able  to  feel  the  hairs  on  a  moth's  underwing, 
separate  the  tones  on  a  starling's  neck,  smell,  like 
a  hare,  the  very  breath  of  the  com,  see  like  a  sea- 
bird,  hear  like  a  stag.     Those,  with  respect  to  Char- 


VOICE  FROM  THE   OPEN  85 

nock  and  his  fellow-pundits  at  Westminster,  or  to 
the  Able  Editors  of  Fleet  Street,  with  their  telephones 
to  their  long  ears,  and  their  eyes  on  the  latest  intelli- 
gence— those  are  the  faculties  which  God  has  given 
us  to  save  ourselves  withal.  We  are  to  replenish  the 
earth,  I  believe — but  what  for  ?  For  the  earth's  ad- 
vantage? Not  at  all,  but  for  ours.  (Personally, 
mind  you,  I  don't  subscribe  at  all  to  the  doctrine  that 
we  are  lords  of  creation.  Why  should  we  be  ?  The 
little  that  I  know  about  the  beasts,  and  what  I  am 
learning  about  the  plants,  suggest  to  me  that  they 
have  their  salvation  to  work  out  by  the  side  of  us, 
and  that  we  can  help  each  other  a  good  deal  more 
than  we  do  at  present.  I  once  saw  a  child  playing 
horses  in  a  garden  with  a  little  dog.  The  dog  was 
the  horse,  and  wore  a  halter  of  string  over  his  muzzle; 
she  held  the  reins.  They  had  a  great  run,  and  she 
brought  him  back  to  his  loose-box,  undid  the  halter, 
and  set  him  to  a  wisp  or  two  of  hay.  If  you'll  take 
it  from  me,  he  buried  his  nose  in  it,  and  made  be- 
lieve to  have  his  feed.  Upon  my  honour,  that's 
true!  All  right;  then  don't  tell  me  that  we  and  the 
beasts  can't  help  each  other  any  more.  But  you 
won't,  I  know.  It's  old  Chamock  I'm  doubtful 
about,  who  blows  birds  to  pieces  with  a  gun.) 

That  was  a  digression.  I  was  waiting  for  you  to 
admit  that  the  full  use  of  our  faculties  is  our  way  of 
temporal  salvation:  to  think  to  the  full,  reason  and 
remember,  to  swell  or  uplift  the  heart,  to  walk  and 
run;  to  learn  how  to  do  things,  make  them,  use  them, 
delight  in  them;  to  be  alive  in  every  fibre,  and  at  all 


86  OPEN  COUNTRY 

times;  to  be  always  alert,  always  awake,  always  at 
the  top  of  perfection,  until  we  are  wholesomely  and 
thankfully  tired — and  then,  dear  God,  to  sleep  like 
the  dead!  If  we  are  things  of  body,  mind,  and 
motion,  as  you'll  allow,  that  must  be  salvation. 
Very  well,  we  agree  so  far — at  least  I  hope  we  do; 
for  I  give  you  fair  warning,  my  friend,  that  in  that 
admission  you  have  placed  in  my  hands  a  most 
powerful  weapon.     And  don't  you  forget  it! 

Now  then.  If  the  use  and  perfecting  of  faculty 
is  salvation,  liberty  to  learn  is  the  only  way  of  it. 
We  must  be  absolutely  free,  Sanchia.  Salvation  de- 
mands it,  our  manhood  expects  it  of  us.  We  started, 
mind  you,  free  enough:  all  our  hamper  is  of  our 
own  making.  But  we've  never  been  free  since  we 
were  turned  out  of  Eden  in  the  days  before  the  Flood. 

Consider  old  Charnock,  Squire  of  Graseby — is  he 
free?  God  pity  the  poor,  he's  the  veriest  shackled 
slave  in  this  land  of  slaves.  You  are  all  slaves,  you 
know:  your  sublime  Lady  Maulcverer  (who  fancies 
herself  a  slave-owner,  bless  her!) ;  you,  my  poor  dear 
child,  qualifying  for  your  yoke;  your  respected  Parson 
Twisden  (squire  and  parson  by  shifts) — all  the  lot 
of  you,  Sanchia,  but  with  a  difference.  Some  of  you 
can't  help  yourselves.  My  lady  was  bought  by  the 
late  Sir  Giles,  who  was  himself  a  descendant  of  slaves 
from  the  time  of  the  biggest  slave  of  them  all,  the 
late  William  Conqueror;  and  she  was  sold  by  her 
father  to  him  for  thirty  (or  thirty-two)  pieces  of  an 
escutcheon  and  a  country-seat  thrown  in.  And  she 
was  a  good  girl  in  those  days,  and  did  as  she  was 


VOICE  FROM  THE  OPEN  87 

bid — besides,  Sir  Giles  was  a  fine  figure  of  a  man,  I 
hear.  You're  a  slave  for  the  same  reasons — good- 
ness and  girlhood.  Why,  you've  only  just  been  al- 
lowed to  put  up  your  hair!  And  your  Reverend 
Twisden  ?  Well,  he  put  his  neck  under  the  yoke  of 
the  Church  with  great  intention.  It  was  deliberate; 
he  knew  very  well  what  he  was  doing ;  I  admire  him 
for  it.  He'd  be  the  first  to  admit  the  slavery.  Ser- 
vice which  is  perfect  freedom,  he'd  say.  I  don't 
agree  with  him.  According  to  me,  we  are  all  priests 
for  ever  after  the  order  of  Melchisedek;  but  I'm  a 
sort  of  Quaker,  you  know — a  pagan  Quaker,  or  a 
quaking  Pagan,  whichever  you  please.  No!  I  don't 
agree  with  him  at  all.  I  disapprove  of  your  reverend 
friend.  But  I  respect  him  mightily,  all  the  same — 
and  here's  his  very  good  health! 

But  old  Roger  Chamock,  M.P.,  J.P.,  D.L. — out 
upon  the  hobbled  wretch !  He's  done  it  himself  from 
the  start,  and  has  no  one  but  himself  to  thank  for  it. 
I've  seen  him  at  it  all  along,  watched  him  from  the 
playground  to  the  hulks — the  gilded  hulks  in  which 
he  now  sweats.  Rugby  doesn't  count,  though  he  was 
in  the  Sixth,  and  a  swell.  At  Cambridge  he  was  a 
jolly  chap  (as  he  is  now,  confound  him!),  quite  an 
easy-going,  God-bless-you  kind  of  a  man,  with  a 
taste  for  prehistoric  remains  which  might  easily  have 
developed  into  a  passion.  He  took  a  second  in  his- 
tory, and  was  going  off  to  Petersburg  to  study  under 
Vinogradoff.  But  what  did  he  do  instead  ?  Articled 
himself  to  a  brewer!  and  when  his  father  died  and 
left  him  a  thousand  or  two,  what  next  but  he  must 


88  OPEN  COUNTRY 

buy  the  brewer  out?  It  was  a  rotten  concern,  I 
believe,  and  he  got  it  for  a  song.  Well,  that  was  the 
end  of  him;  he  set  to  work  to  ''build  up  his  fortune." 
You  might  put  it  that  he  set  to  work  to  brick  him- 
self up  in  a  great  house.  God  help  him  now,  he 
was  at  it  from  dawn  to  midnight,  slaving  and  driving 
slaves.  He  starved  himself,  wouldn't  look  at  the 
pretty  girl  he  was  fond  of,  and  who  was  fond  of  him 
too ;  took  no  days  off,  forgot  his  barrows  and  tumuli ; 
thought  of  nothing  but  beer-shops  and  how  he  could 
rope  'em  in:  a  foreclosure  here,  an  advance  there, 
here  a  little  and  there  a  little;  nor  did  he  rest  until 
he  had  every  poor  devil  within  a  thirty  mile  of 
Graseby  under  his  arrogant  old  purple  thumb.  He 
"got  on,"  as  they  say;  bought  land;  built  little 
painty  villas  for  his  dependents  to  rent  of  him;  was 
what  they  call  a  just  landlord,  which  means  that  he 
abated  a  man  a  fiver  a  year  if  he  saw  that  by  doing 
so  he  would  get  a  tenner  out  of  him  later  on.  Then 
he  married  into  the  house  of  Badlesmere  and  be- 
came one  of  the  Salt  of  the  Earth.  Salt!  Yes,  in- 
deed, an  irritant  poison. 

What  did  he  get?  What  was  his  price?  I'll  tell 
you.  He  got  a  country-house  five  times  too  big  for 
any  reasonable  man,  with  as  many  rooms  in  it  as 
there  are  days  in  the  month.  He  could  have  slept 
in  a  new  bed  every  night  for  three  weeks  if  he  had 
pleased.  And  that  did  please  him  vastly.  And  he 
got  all  the  rest  of  his  glories  after  that.  J. P.  came 
next — easily;  and  they  all  followed — M.P.,  D.L., 
M.F.H.     They   say   he's   to   be   sheriff   this   year. 


VOICE  FROM  THE   OPEN  89 

There  are  the  Privy  Council  and  a  Peerage  ahead  of 
old  Roger:  he's  got  his  eye  on  'em.  Lord  Graseby, 
eh?    Viscount,   Earl,   Marquis   of   Graseby,   Duke 

of I  believe  there's  only  one  county  left  to  be 

duke  of,  and  that  Flint.  Duke  of  Flint — and  well 
named,  for  a  man  petrified  at  the  heart.  Wicked 
old  Roger,  whom  I  protest  I  still  love,  for  all  I  chasten 
him. 

Now,  do  you  see  how  the  fellow's  tied  himself  up — 
like  one  of  his  own  beer-shops?  He  has  tied  up 
his  morals  absolutely.  I  don't  mean  in  the  cheap 
sense  that  he  can't  live  in  splendour  and  ease  unless 
people  get  drunk.  That's  true,  but  refers  to  the 
vulgar  notion  of  morals,  as  meaning  good  morals. 
(Morality  doesn't  mean  good  morals  at  all.  It 
means  customs.  Very  bad  customs  may  be  very 
good  morals  to  some  nations,  and  t'other  way  about. 
The  only  really  good  morality,  common  to  all  people,} 
consists  in  being  true  to  yourself.)  But  I  mean  that' 
he  can't  follow  his  own  bent.  He  can't  have  a  single 
motion  of  the  mind  unless  public  opinion  backs  him 
up.  Hopeless!  Can  he  punch  a  man's  head?  Of 
course  not:  he'd  be  liable  to  appear  before  his  own 
bench.  And  he's  chairman !  Can  he  lie  down  under 
a  hedge  on  a  starry  night  in  summer  and  sleep  be- 
neath the  stars?  An  excellent  custom,  according  to 
me,  but,  bless  you,  the  scandal!  Can  he  walk  down 
Bond  Street  on  a  July  noon  with  his  coat  off?  Not 
without  a  crowd  at  his  heels,  and  Pve  done  it  half- 
a-dozen  times.  Can  he  delve?  There's  forty  stal- 
wart gardening  men  to  know  the  reason  why.     Can 


90  OPEN  COUNTRY 

he  pass  the  time  of  day  with  a  railway-guard,  'bus- 
conductor,  crossing-sweeper,  gipsy-woman,  all  first- 
rate  authorities  in  their  own  arts?  Not  without 
an  apparatus  of  curtseyings,  forelock-pullings,  tip- 
expectations,  moppings  and  mowings  which  smother 
his  manhood  up  in  a  silly  halo,  pulled  from  the  backs 
of  the  might-be  honest  creatures  he's  with.  Upon 
my  soul,  Sanchia,  did  you  ever  dream  of  such 
wretchedness  as  this?  Cribbed,  cabined,  confined — 
why,  if  the  man  plays  golf,  he  must  have  another  at 
his  heels  to  carry  his  toys  about !  Why,  if  the  man's 
hungry,  he  must  wait  until  two  others  have  put  on 
plush  breeches  and  brass-buttoned  coats,  and  spread 
the  table,  and  called  in  Tomkins  (the  flap-cheeked, 
elephant-eared  Tomkins)  to  approve,  and  to  tell  him 
heavily,  "Luncheon  is  served,  sir." 

And  then  he'll  have  one  tall  fellow  to  fill  his  plate, 
and  another  to  take  it  away  again;  and  neither  of 
them,  for  their  lives,  will  dare  give  him  anything  to 
drink  when  he's  athirst,  because,  if  they  did,  Tom- 
kins would  be  drawing  a  hundred  and  fifty  a  year 
and  nothing  to  show  for  it.  Oh,  wretched,  wretched, 
hobbled,  crippled,  groping  old  Chamock!  Now  do 
you  see  why  I  have  renounced  my  patrimony,  and 
live  at  my  ease,  as  my  wits  choose?  Now  do  you 
think  me  a  madman?  I  vow  to  you,  Queen  Mab, 
I  think  myself  the  second  wisest  man  on  earth.  The 
first  wisest  has  been  dead  some  years.  His  name 
was  Diogenes;  and  he  was  neither  M.P.,  J. P.,  nor 
D.L.  Nor  did  he  marry  into  the  house  of  Badles- 
mere. 


VOICE  FROM  THE  OPEN  91 

But  he's  happy,  the  old  sand-blind  rascal,  you'll 
tell  me.  I  reply,  of  course  the  fellow's  snug;  and 
as  he  has  a  superficies  (the  only  thing  left  him  which 
he  shares  with  me,  I  suppose),  when  you  stroke  him 
he's  pleased.  His  hunters  and  hounds  stroke  him, 
no  doubt;  caps  off  from  the  lads,  bobs  from  the 
lasses,  stroke  him.  There's  a  lot  of  pretty  tickling 
done  when  a  great  policeman  holds  up  the  traffic 
from  Victoria  to  Westminster  Bridge,  in  order  that 
Chamock,  M.P.,  may  walk  unhindered  to  the  House. 
Oh,  yes,  if  you  tickle  him,  he  can  still  purr,  I  grant 
you.     If  that's  happiness,  he's  happy. 

He  tickles  himself  too,  or  gets  his  haberdasher  to 
tickle  him.  I  was  watching  him  the  other  day  when 
we  were  all  there.  You  remember  how  you  and  I 
got  sick  of  the  golfing  talk  and  went  off  over  the  lake, 
and  pretended  we  were  lost  ?  Well,  before  we  broke 
loose,  after  luncheon,  on  the  terrace,  I  was  watching 
the  old  chap,  with  his  fat  cigar  well  alight,  and  his 
coffee  and  old  brandy  (which  are  very  bad  for  his 
liver,  and  he  knows  it)  at  his  elbow.  I  wonder  if  you 
saw  it  all:  I  did — in  a  flash.  There  he  sat,  you 
know,  quite  the  prosperous,  clean  Englishman — a 
great  buck  in  his  way — in  his  good  clothes,  neatest 
boots,  point  device  all  over,  absolutely  nothing  wrong. 
His  blue  flannels!  His  small  black  satin  tie  under 
the  flawless  collar;  the  pearl  pin;  the  brown  shoes! 
Exquisite  cut,  those  shoes,  brogued,  and  with  a  sur- 
face like  old  lacquer.  His  valet,  he  tells  me,  is 
worth  his  weight  in  paper.  Superb,  prosperous 
creature;    tickling  himself,   and  purring  hard.     It 


92  OPEN   COUNTRY 

was  his  silk  sock  which  was  the  crowning  touch  to 
his  happiness:  I  saw  that — in  a  flash.  Cornflower 
blue,  you  may  have  noticed,  with  little  gold  threads 
meandering  up  his  calf.  It  fitted  like  a  skin,  showed 
off  his  wicked  old  ankle  to  a  nicety.  The  high  light 
came  on  the  bone  and  gleamed  like  a  satiny  rose- 
petal.  Neatness,  daintiness  itself !  Strokable!  You 
couldn't  help  stroking  it.  I  wanted  to,  myself. 
That  was  his  purring-point. 

I  saw  him  watch  it,  turn  his  foot  about  to  catch 
the  light;  then  he  pulled  deeply  at  his  cigar,  sighed 
his  contentment,  crossed  his  leg,  and  clasped  that 
jolly  ankle — and  purred  and  purred!  No  trace  of 
vulgar  snobbery,  mind.  He  didn't  want  any  one 
else  to  admire  or  envy.  He's  not  low — not  a  bit. 
No.  He  liked  it  to  be  there,  to  be  sure  of  its  per- 
fectness,  to  feel  that  it  was  all  of  a  piece  with  the  rest 
of  him — with  Bill  Hill,  with  Grosvenor  Gardens,  the 
House  of  Commons,  with  the  horses  in  the  loose- 
boxes,  and  the  great  landau  and  silver-harnessed  pair 
of  browns.  It  was  a  finishing-touch,  a  corner-stone, 
bless  him!  So  let  us  sing,  Happy,  happy,  happy 
Charnock!  He's  got  his  reward — worked  hard  and 
ta'en  his  wages.  Now  let  him  order  his  tomb  in  St. 
Praxed's  Church  and  his  life's  work's  done!  No, 
no !    I  forgot  the  peerage. 

Esau,  being  hungry  as  a  hunter,  sold  his  birth- 
right for  porridge.  The  thing  was  done  in  a  minute; 
he  yielded  to  the  passion  of  hunger,  and  was  none 
the  worse,  because  a  full  meal  doesn't  root  you  for 


VOICE  FROM  THE  OPEN 


93 


ever  to  the  glebe.  And  his  birthright — flocks  and 
herds  and  wives,  mostly — was,  if  he  had  only  known 
it,  a  birth-wrong.  He  was  really  well  out  of  it.  But 
Roger,  if  you'll  forgive  a  vile  pun,  has  bartered  his 
manhood  for  purrage — for  a  landau  and  pair,  and 
the  rest;  the  girl  he  loved  (such  a  nice  girl  too)  for 
a  daughter  of  the  house  of  Badlesmere,  and  the  rest 
of  that;  the  teaching  of  his  own  sons  for  a  deer-park 
and  pack  of  hounds;  and  his  digestion  for  a  great 
table,  three  men-servants,  and  a  French  cook  with  a 
temper.  He  had  a  brain,  and  has  condescended  it 
to  low  cunning;  he  had  sinews,  and  has  coated  them 
with  lard.  He  might  have  climbed  the  heights,  and 
he  gets  carried  up  in  a  landau.  He  might  have  made 
his  boys  his  friends;  but  he  sends  'em  to  Eton,  and 
teaches  'em  to  look  on  him  as  a  paymaster.  He  can 
do  nothing  whatever  that  he  has  a  mind  to  unless  he 
can  coax  his  neighbours  to  admire  him  for  doing  it; 
and  the  moment  they  carry  their  admiration  to  the 
point  of  copying  him,  he  wants  to  do  something  else, 
and  must  coax  'em  again.  And  you  think  I'm  a  mad- 
man for  not  copying  that  way  of  life!  You  don't, 
my  dear;  I  won't  believe  it.  I'm  an  angel  of  light 
compared  to  old  Roger.  Upon  my  soul,  I'm  a 
superior  person,  though  I've  only  got  three  pairs  of 
trousers  to  my  name. 

The  dawn  is  here  and  shames  my  rage.  I  ought 
to  thank  God  that  I'm  alive  and  free  as  air,  instead 
of  blaspheming  Him  for  letting  other  wretches  live 
also.     The  sun  has  risen  out  of  the  North  Sea,  and 


94  OPEN  COUNTRY 

all  the  little  eager  waves  of  the  Wash  are  on  fire  at 
the  edges.  The  air  is  wondrous  mild — as  tremulous 
and  close  to  tears  as  a  convalescent  child.  I  wish — 
I  wish — I  wish  that  one  dear  child  was  here  to  watch 
the  pearly  wonder  of  this  dawn  with  me.  No,  I 
don't;  I  swear  I  don't.  It's  not  going  to  last ;  it  will 
rain  before  eight  o'clock,  and  I  shall  be  squelching 
through  miry  Norfolk  on  my  way  to  Ely.  But  while 
it  lasts  it's  too  awfully  beautiful  for  words.  A  filmy 
wonder:  Aurora,  new  out  of  bed,  wistful  after  her 
dreams.     (That's  rather  pretty.) 

I  shan't  go  to  bed  at  all:  it's  too  good.  I  shall 
swim  in  the  gilded  sea  while  the  coffee  is  a-making, 
then  paint  what  I  can  remember  of  this  astounding 
glory ;  and  then  shove  along  through  the  soak  to  Ely. 
There  ought  to  be  a  letter  for  me  there.  Address 
me  *'care  of  Mrs.  Webster,  basket-maker."  She 
lives  in  a  caravan,  and  smokes  a  pipe;  but  she's  an 
honest  woman.    She  shaves  twice  a  week. 

Good-bye,  Sanchia.  Don't  think  me  mad,  and  re- 
member me  in  your  prayers. 

Leagues  of  marsh-cotton  here — exquisite  clouds  of 
burnt  silver.     And  samphire — like  wet  emerald! 

Her  frugal  little  answer,  when  it  came  from  Lon- 
don, brought  the  tears  to  his  eyes. 


CHAPTER  IX 

Vicky's  conclusions,  and  the  facts 

The  Percivals'  was  a  busy  household:  from  old 
Tom  (as  his  friends  had  him),  lording  it  in  The 
Poultry,  to  young  Sanchia,  with  her  lover  and  her 
opening  mysteries,  it  was  a  household  united  only 
in  diversity.  Mrs.  Percival — for  all  her  bustlings 
out  and  in,  writings  of  letters,  interviewings  of  young 
women  with  souls  to  be  saved,  and  of  curates  very 
ready  to  save  them;  her  attendings  of  committees, 
her  afternoons,  and  her  evening  parties — would  have 
been  the  loudest  to  cry  out  upon  such  an  accusation ; 
she  would  have  acclaimed  her  children's  confidence 
above  all  things  in  the  world ;  but  the  facts  are  that 
every  one  of  her  children  told  her  exactly  what  she 
chose,  and  that  she  had,  above  all  women  bom,  the 
power  of  deluding  herself.  Thus  she  did  not,  and 
could  not  if  she  would,  examine  the  postman's  daily 
tribute;  and  yet  she  believed  that  every  letter  came 
lo  the  house,  so  to  speak,  with  a  halfpenny  stamp  on 
it.  But  this  was  absurd.  Vicky's  correspondence, 
for  example,  was  enormous — a  pink,  blue,  Silurian 
pile  stood  like  a  leaning  tower  by  her  plate  every 
morning.  To  see  her  scan,  with  splendid  indif- 
ference, each  envelope  back  and  front,  consider,  put 

95 


96  OPEN  COUNTRY 

aside,  accept,  reject,  with  pretty  finger  to  pretty  chin, 
open,  absorb,  read  forwards,  backwards,  across; 
stifle  a  laugh,  smother  a  yawn,  smile  darkly,  guffaw 
openly — was  to  see  a  robin  on  a  lawn  await  the  im- 
mediate advent  of  a  worm,  and  act  accordingly,  feed 
or  reject.  Vicky  wrote  enormously,  as  she  received, 
and  as  openly,  with  a  carelessness  which  was  proof 
against  suspicion.  Hawise,  so  far  as  one  knew, 
heard  only  from  Sir  George  or  some  remote  first 
cousin  of  his  with  a  hyphenated  name  and  address 
printed  in  bold  black.  Melusine  had  many  foreign 
correspondents — an  Indian  Civil  Servant  was  known 
to  be  one,  and  a  ne'er-do-well  in  Colorado  with  one 
lung  was  another.  There  had  been  an  Italian  dramatic 
poet,  but  he  had  married  and  gone  into  an  insurance 
office.  That  dream  was  over.  Sanchia's  post  was 
never  very  large — but  then  she  was  the  baby,  as  it 
were,  and  had  not,  so  far,  many  friends.  One  or 
two  school-mates  kept  her  up — Grace  Mauleverer,  of 
course — twice  a  year  she  heard  from  one  of  the  Char- 
nock  boys,  chiefly  asking  for  postage-stamps;  once 
in  a  blue  moon  she  got  a  letter  which  made  Vicky 
look  sideways  from  her  immense  affair,  and  shut 
considering  eyes  for  two  minutes;  but  that  was  all. 
One  gathers  that  her  time  was  to  come.  Now,  here 
came  bulky  envelopes  every  few  days,  and  the  ques- 
tion of  the  moment  was,  Had  it  come?  "Had  it,  by 
Jove?"  Miss  Vicky  asked  herself,  for  she  was  nothing 
if  not  free  of  speech. 

If  there  was  little  confidence  between  mother  and 
daughter,  there  was  little  more  between  sister  and 


VICKY'S   CONCLUSIONS  97 

sister.  Each  had  a  character  of  her  own,  and  each 
chose  to  deploy  it  in  her  own  way  in  face  of  the  ad- 
vancing world.  To  each  her  own  affairs  were  of 
absorbing  interest,  her  own  pursuit  of  the  hour  was 
the  Law  of  Being.  Outwardly  they  were  affectionate, 
overflowing,  unreserved ;  yet  it  was  a  matter  of  strict 
etiquette  with  every  one  of  them,  from  the  incisive, 
married  Philippa  downwards,  that  confidences  were 
in  the  absolute  discretion  of  the  holder,  and  never  to 
be  sought  or  peered  after. 

But  one  couldn't  help  being  interested,  of  course, 
and  Vicky  was  highly  curious  about  these  letters  of 
Sancie's.  They  came  from  the  country,  it  was  clear, 
because  they  only  came  in  the  mornings,  and  on 
Mondays  by  the  second  post.  Most  certainly  they 
were  from  a  man:  look  at  the  writing.  And  from 
a  casual  sort  of  man:  look  how  the  stamps  were 
stuck  on !  And  yet  from  a  queer  sort  of  man :  ''Miss 
Sanchia-Josepha  Percival" — Good  Heavens!  It  oc- 
curred to  Vicky,  first,  that  it  was  a  clergyman,  be- 
cause a  clergyman  ought  to  be  keen  on  the  name  of 
Joseph.  There  had  been  a  Saint  Joseph,  you  see 
— though  she  (Vicky)  would  have  said  that  he  was 
the  last  saint  a  clergyman  ought  to  have  been  in- 
terested in.  Such  a  peculiar  position — but  perhaps 
that  was  it.  She  rejected  the  clergyman  theory  in 
favour  of  a  University  don,  and  one  sees  the  devolu- 
tion of  thought.  A  precise,  academic  kind  of  man; 
and  when  you  came  to  think  of  it,  Sancie  might  easily 
have  captured  a  professor.  She  was  so  frightfully 
serious  about  things,  always  wanted  to  know  why 


gS  OPEN  COUNTRY 

things  were  so.  They  love  that,  you  know.  At  any 
rate,  Vicky  knew.  The  don  remained  in  possession 
for  nearly  three  weeks.  Miss  Sanchia-Josepha  Per- 
cival — with  a  hyphen ! — who  else  could  possibly ? 

And  then  came  a  letter  one  morning  when  Sancie, 
with  head  bowed  over  the  close  writing,  chuckled, 
and  laughed  outright.  The  don  collapsed  like  a 
house  of  cards.  They  never  made  jokes.  (That  is 
a  great  mistake,  a  too  hasty  generalisation  of  Vicky's.) 
A  new  hypothesis  reared  itself  out  of  the  debris  of 
the  Fellow  of  All-Souls  (for  he  had  been  at  that),  a 
shining,  burning  hypothesis,  which  held  the  field. 
This  was  a  desperate  lover,  rolling  Sancie  over  the 
tongue.  He  wsls  frightfully  in  love,  he  couldn't  have 
enough  of  Sancie.  He  expended  himself  upon  every 
syllable  of  her — Miss  Sanchia-Josepha  Percival — 
even  a  hyphen  gave  him  a  sensation.  Darling  little 
Sancie!    How  awfully  exciting! 

Now,  who  was  it?  Not  an  Eton  boy,  of  course, 
who  would  put  Miss  S.  Percival,  as  if  her  name  had 
been  Sarah,  like  a  cook.  Besides,  he  wouldn't  write 
long  letters  like  that.  He'd  ask  for  white  mice,  or 
talk  about  a  cricket-match  and  then — "Your  affec- 
tionate friend  Dowser.  P.S.  You  might  write  to 
a  chap."  Vicky  knew  that  kind  too.  That  was 
absurd. 

It  was,  she  finally  decided.  Lord  William  Bote- 
tort,  Sir  George's  friend  William  Botetort.  It  must 
be,  you  see,  for  there  was  nobody  else.  Lord  Badles- 
mere  was  married — not  that  that  made  any  differ- 
ence, of  course.    In  fact,  they  were  often  the  worst. 


VICKY'S   CONCLUSIONS  99 

That  was  such  a  bore,  because  they  were  no  good. 
You  always  knew  just  how  far  they  would  go — and 
then  you  got  a  letter  to  say  that  they  must  consider 
your  fair  name  above  all  things  in  the  world,  and 
at  whatever  cost  to  themselves — and  all  that.  But 
Vicky  somehow  was  clear  that  it  couldn't  be  Lord 
Badlesmere.  He  hadn't  come  up  enough  in  conver- 
sation. Sancie  had  never  spoken  his  name  unless 
mamma  simply  dragged  him  in  by  the  neck ;  whereas 
she  had  talked  about  Lord  William  of  her  own  accord, 
and  had  revelled  in  Sir  George's  ''William  Botetort." 
Vicky  had  not  often  seen  Sancie  so  tickled.  But  of 
course  Sir  George  was  gorgeous.  The  pity  was  that 
Hawise  was  to  be  married  so  soon.  One  could  go 
to  stay  with  them,  but  it  would  never  be  quite  so 
funny. 

It  was  quite  as  funny  in  its  way,  though,  to  see 
Vicky  at  the  moment  when  her  glowing  hypothesis 
shivered  and  went  out.  By  that  time — the  middle  of 
June,  a  week  before  the  Pinwell  wedding,  which 
mamma  insisted  on  having  in  the  Portman  Chapel — 
the  Portman  Chapel! — because  it  was  her  parish 
church  (which  it  wasn't,  you  know:  however, 
mamma — ),  by  that  time  the  visit  to  Gorston  was 
ancient  history.  Events  moved  quickly  in  Great 
Cumberland  Place;  but  Vicky  made  more  than  one 
effort  to  recall  it;  and  sitting  on  Sancie's  bed  one 
day,  when  the  child  was  sick  and  breakfasting  there, 
did  succeed.  A  letter  was  in  Sancie's  hand,  half 
read.    Here  was  Vicky's  cue.     She  made  a  wide  cast. 

"Sancie,  here's  the  very  latest  from  the  breakfast- 


lOO  OPEN   COUNTRY 

room.  Mamma  has  really  surpassed  herself.  Lis- 
ten. The  John  Chevenixes  ask  me  to  go  to  Hur- 
lingham  with  them  next  Wednesday, — Wednesday 
week,  do  you  see?"     Sanchia,  vague-eyed,  nodded. 

"Don't  look  so  distant,  darling.  Do  attend.  Of 
course  I  say  that  I  shall  go — to  papa,  mind  you,  who 
looks  up  from  his  paper,  and  nods  at  me,  sweet  old 
thing.  'In  your  best  becomes,  Vicky,  eh?'  And 
then  mamma,  if  you  please,  mamma  puts  on  a  holy 
expression,  a  'For  these  and  all  Thy  mercies'  ex- 
pression, and  says — what  do  you  think?  That 
Thursday  is  Hawise's  wedding  day,  and  that  she 
does  think  we  might  be  all  together  the  day  before. 
Isn't  that  a  great  one  ?  Isn't  that  as  good  as  George's 
'William  Botetort'?  It's  really  better,  because  it's 
so  frightfully  crafty." 

Sanchia  lifted  her  eyebrows.  "I  don't  think  she 
meant  to  be  crafty.  I  think  she  felt  like  that — at 
the  moment!" 

Vicky  threw  up  her  hands.  "Well,  there  it  is, 
anyhow.  It  will  be  a  heavy  trial,  that  Wednesday. 
Unless  George  is  there,  of  course.  Then  we  may 
have  some  fun."  She  thought,  remembered,  and 
exploded.  "William  Botetort!"  Then  she  said,  "I 
suppose  there  really  was  such  a  person  there.  I  sup- 
pose George  didn't  fall  into  a  pit.  No,  no,  you're 
not  good  enough  for  that." 

"No,"  said  Sanchia,  "there  really  was  such  a 
person." 

The  moment  had  come.  "Was  he  nice?"  asked 
Vicky;  and  Sanchia,  with  that  air  of  divine  serious- 


VICKY'S  CONCLUSIONS  loi 

ness,  of  flawless  sincerity,  crystal-clear,  which  made 
her  so  lovely  and  so  baffling  at  once,  replied  calmly, 
"Yes,  he  was  rather  nice.  He  blinked  before  he 
spoke — like  a  guinea-pig." 

And  there  was  the  wreck  of  Lord  William  Botetort 
— done  with  a  turn  of  Sanchia's  wrist.  Vicky  gave  it 
up. 

But  what  Sanchia  herself  made  of  these  letters  of 
hers  must  now  be  considered. 

She  took  them  seriously,  with  a  sober  elation  in 
the  tribute  which  they  certainly  were.  She  took  them 
seriously  though  they  often  made  her  laugh  outright, 
for  she  had  wit  enough  to  see  that  her  friend  was 
most  in  earnest  when  he  least  appeared  so.  They 
contained,  nearly  all  of  them,  highly  contentious 
matter,  and  she  paid  them  the  compliment  of  exam- 
ining their  propositions  with  all  the  brain  she  could 
muster.  Senhouse  treated  her  absolutely  as  an 
equal — when  he  didn't  plainly  put  her  up  as  his 
superior.  It  is  to  her  credit  to  say — as  the  fact  is — 
that  she  was  more  pleased  by  the  first  position  as- 
signed her  than  by  the  second.  To  be  likened, 
gravely,  to  a  Greek  Goddess  puzzled  her  at  first; 
but  it  ended  by  stimulating  her  to  high  exertions. 
Senhouse  made  no  secret  of  his  conviction  that  she 
was  a  reincarnation  of  Artemis  the  Chaste  and  Fair. 
He  wrote  of  that  as  of  a  matter  of  course — too  plain 
to  require  elaboration.  He  never  commented  upon 
it,  but  made  it  the  basis  of  all  his  argument.  As  time 
went  on  she  partly  believed  him — I  mean  that  she 


I02  OPEN  COUNTRY 

quite  believed  in  his  seriousness,  and  did  her  best 
to  justify  it.  He  told  her  frankly  that  to  him  she 
was  the  holiest  of  women;  and  she  wished  to  be 
so.  He  implied  beyond  question  that  she  was  the 
loveliest;  and  she  hoped  that  she  was.  She  went 
so  far  as  this,  that  she  took  thought  (much  more 
than  she  had  ever  taken  before)  over  her  appear- 
ance, because  he  wrote  to  her  that,  to  him,  it  was  so 
exquisite.  She  became — as  Vicky  said — awfully  par- 
ticular about  her  gowns,  and  spent  a  good  deal  of 
time  over  her  hair,  and  her  choice  of  soaps.  Under 
the  spur  from  him  she  took  immense  pains  with  her 
sketching,  worked  hard  at  it,  and  aimed  for  lessons 
at  the  Slade  School,  with  a  studio,  possibly,  in  the 
future:  why  not  Paris,  indeed?  And  she  read,  by 
his  light,  much  poetry,  belles  lettres,  Elia,  Hazlitt, 
Swift;  by  his  advice  eschewed  Sterne;  nibbled  at 
Dante,  aspired  to  the  Greek  Grammar.  So  far  he 
did  her  great  good,  because  she  had  a  mind,  which 
he  excited  towards  exercise. 

But  he  stirred  her  curiosity  too,  and  perhaps  that 
was  not  so  well.  He  drew  her  on  to  examine  institu- 
tions which  hitherto  she  had  accepted  as  part  of  the 
landscape.  It  was  impossible,  for  instance,  to  cor- 
respond with  a  man  who  called  himself  an  Anarchist 
without  finding  out  what  Anarchists  really  did  de- 
sire. And  it  was  difficult  to  be  satisfied  on  that 
point  without  inquiry  into  papa's  bi-annual  toast  of 
"The  Queen,  God  bless  her,"  or  into  his  frequent 
grunt  of  satisfaction  and  "Thank  your  stars,  my 
dear,  we've  got  a  House  of  Lords."     As  if  mamma, 


VICKY'S   CONCLUSIONS  103 

Vicky  used  to  say,  wouldn't  do  that  without  papa! 
Sanchia  began  to  read  the  newspaper  for  herself 
about  this  time,  and  to  puzzle,  and  to  criticise,  and 
to  give  papa  bad  quarters  of  an  hour  over  his  before- 
dinner  cigar.  Papa  used  to  puff  and  blow  and  rub 
his  whiskers.  "Well,  well,  that's  all  damned  fine, 
my  chick — "  and  then  he  would  withdraw  the  adjec- 
tive as  most-ungentlemanly.  ''But  you  see,  my  love, 
the  country's  got  to  be  governed — and  if  we  don't 
respect  the  rights  of  property,  where  on  earth  are 
we?"  He  would  pat  her  shoulder.  "One  of  these 
days,  when  we've  got  chickens  of  our  own  to  send 
out  into  the  world,  we  shall  know  more  about  the 
rights  of  property  than  we  do  now."  Thus  papa. 
But  Jack  said  that  there  were  no  rights  of  property, 
and  that,  if  there  were,  property  was  so  much  bottom- 
hamper.  So  Sanchia  inquired  into  the  foundations 
of  Society. 

Then  religion!  Mamma,  for  instance,  said  that 
Hawise  must  be  married  in  her  parish  church.  Well 
now — must  she?  Did  God  expect  it  of  Hawise,  or 
was  it  the  State  ?  And  who  was  the  State  anyhow  ? 
And — where  was  God  ?  A  young  Sanchia  of  twenty 
years,  her  hair  newly  put  up,  and  the  seriousness 
upon  her  of  the  hush  before  sunrise — what  was  she  to 
do,  confronted  by  these  questions  ?  What  could  she 
do  but  inquire  of  her  friend  his  view  of  God  ?  She 
did  it,  with  a  very  sober  pen,  and  with  lips  pale  and 
compressed.  She  wrote  her  letter  and  dropped  it 
in  the  pillar-box;  and  as  she  walked  back  to  the 
house  promised  herself  that  she  would  not  be  swayed 


I04  OPEN   COUNTRY 

by  authority — even  Jack's  authority.  Because,  if 
Jack  said  that  she  was  Artemis,  Jack  must  mean 
that  she  was — what?    It  was  very  wonderful. 

Senhouse's   reply   follows.    It   followed   immedi- 
ately. 


CHAPTER  X 

SENHOUSE  ON  PAN  AND  THE  NYMPHS 

Chanctonbury, 
A  White  Morning. 

Your  letter — oh! 

Thank  you,  Sanchia. 

The  postmistress  at  Steyning  handed  it  me  yes- 
tere'en  with  a  smile.  "  'Tis  from  a  leddy  sim- 
mingly,"  quod  she.  But  *' Madam,"  said  I,  "'tis 
from  the  lady" — and  made  her  perfectly  happy. 
The  moon  rose  full  and  orange  over  the  shoulder 
of  Wolstonbury  as  I  broke  the  seal.  Halfway  up 
the  borstal  road,  through  the  wood,  I  lit  a  match 
and  read  till  I  burnt  my  fingers.  When  I  was  at 
home,  snug  in  the  Ring,  I  read  it  all.  A  fair  script, 
Sanchia,  guarded,  temperate,  extraordinarily  Greek 
(for  you  are  Greek,  you  know;  your  mean  is  pure 
gold — whereas  I,  for  all  my  lore,  remain  an  incur- 
able Romantick.  I  prefer  it  with  a  k).  I  admire 
what  I  can  never  attain — and  so  we  grow;  there's 
no  other  way. 

I  shan't  tell  you  how  often  I've  read  it,  nor  what 
I've  done  with  it. 

Yes,  I  will,  by  George,  lest  you  are  tempted  to 
vanity.  I've  burned  it  with  fire.  I  made  one  on  the 
lee  side  of  the  Ring,  out  of  driftwood  and  bracken. 


io6  OPEN  COUNTRY 

They  might  have  seen  it  from  Cissbury,  and  perhaps 
they  did.  I  put  the  document  in  a  match-box,  the 
match-box  in  a  crock,  and  when  you  were  reduced 
to  fine  silky  black  ash  (such  a  pretty  ash  burned 
Sanchia  makes — glossy  as  a  top-hat,  and  her  writing 
a  deeper  black  upon  the  black)  I  took  you  on  to  the 
barrow  of  some  dead  Briton  and  scattered  you  to  the 
four  airts.  Subtilised  essence  of  Queen  Mab  now 
permeates  the  Weald.     Sussex  thrills. 

Your  news  is  good.  I'm  glad  you  are  hard  at 
work  with  your  paint-box,  and,  as  you  say,  learning 
to  do  without  me.  There's  a  back-handed  com- 
pliment in  that  which  I  like  from  my  only  corre- 
spondent. Also  it  shows  that  we  can  afford  to  tell 
each  other  the  truth,  which  is  a  full-faced  compli- 
ment indeed.  When  all's  said,  friendship  has  noth- 
ing to  do  with  greetings  and  partings — and  this 
island  contains  us  both.  You  can  always  find  me — 
if  you  want  to;  or  I  can  find  yo2i,  which  is  the  same 
thing,  I  believe. 

Now  to  the  point — which  I  like  and  don't  like. 
I  knew  you'd  be  at  me  one  day  or  another:  I've  been 
dreading  it,  and  now  it's  come.  Oh,  but  I  must 
dedicate  myself  "to  the  Maiden  of  the  Country," 
as  Antipater  of  Sidon  called  the  likes  of  you  once. 
And  it  so  happens  that  a  recent  encounter  comes  pat 
to  the  pen.     Listen,  then,  Sanchia.  .  .  . 

I  met  a  fool  in  the  forest — or  on  the  forest  fringes, 
as  we  may  call  Ditchling  Heath.  There,  upon  the 
open  heath  as  I  lay,  he  came  up  and  accosted  me, 
tract  in  hand. 


PAN  AND  THE  NYMPHS  107 

I  was  frying  a  mid-day  rasher,  always  a  nice  busi- 
ness with  me.  After  the  customary  allusions  to  the 
weather,  which  was  perfect,  he  offered  me  his  tract. 
The  title  was  Clean  your  Dirty  Windows.  He  called 
it  ''my  little  book,"  but  wasn't  the  author.  He  was 
a  fool  all  the  same. 

The  effect  of  his  tract — for,  being  very  busy,  I 
asked  him  to  give  me  a  digest — was,  that  you  could 
not  see  God  unless  you  cleaned  your  soul's  windows. 
He  told  me  that,  and  I  said,  **0f  course  you  can't." 
He  said,  "There's  more  than  that  in  my  little  book"; 
and  I  replied,  looking  warily  up  from  my  frying-pan, 
*'I'm  sure  there  must  be,  because  that's  a  platitude." 
I  was  rather  cropped  with  the  man,  and  like  him  for 
not  being  nettled.  He  said,  ''Don't  let  me  inter- 
rupt your  repast";  and  I  said  that  he  wouldn't — and 
would  he  share  it?  He  declined,  but  still  stood  his 
ground.  I  had  nothing  to  say — and  said  it.  He 
didn't  seem  to  be  put  about. 

All  was  going  well,  when  I  was  thoughtless  enough 
to  pour  some  of  my  beer  on  the  ground — a  trick  of 
mine,  as  you  know — and  to  explain  it,  upon  inquiry 
from  him,  as  a  libation  to  Pan  and  the  Nymphs. 
Like  all  dullards,  incapable  of  laughter,  he  suspected 
mockery  where  none  assuredly  was.  He  looked  at 
me,  raising  his  eyebrows,  and  said  sickly,  "You 
make  a  jest  of  these  things?"  By  Heaven,  but  he 
angered  me.  The  arrogant  rascal !  I  fell  upon  him 
tooth  and  claw,  spared  neither  age  (for  he  was  no 
younger  than  me)  nor  sex  (and  he  was  neuter).  I 
asked  him  roundly  how  he  dared,  as  a  gentleman  and 


io8  OPEN  COUNTRY 

a  scholar,  so  talk  of  another  religion,  and  that  of  such 
a  people?  Preposterous  in  me!  But  I  didn't  see 
why  he  should  have  the  monopoly  of  attack.  More- 
over, I  hadn't  talked  to  a  living  soul  for  twenty-four 
hours,  and  I  supposed  that  his  lived. 

He  tried  the  high  horse,  but  I  pulled  him  off  it, 
and  we  fought  on  foot.  "Pray,"  said  he,  "do  you 
presume  to  declare  yourself  seriously  an  acceptor  of 
Greek  mythology?"  Ass  that  he  was!  But  I  had 
to  answer  him  according  to  his  asininity.  I  observed 
that  he  was  forsaking  the  point  of  quarrel,  which  had 
concerned  my  challenge  of  his  temerity,  not  his  of 
mine.  His  had  asked.  Did  I  jest  about  religion  ?  I 
put  it  to  him  that  he  ought  to  see  the  futility  of  his 
question  by  the  way  I  had  framed  mine.  "If  you, 
good  sir,"  I  said,  "are  troubled  with  the  possibility 
of  my  worship  of  Pan  and  the  Nymphs,  why  should 
you  resent  it  if  I  deplore  yours  of  Wliomsoever  it  may 
be?"  I  went  on  to  assure  him  that  I  didn't  deplore 
it  at  all,  but  hinted  that  there  were  many  millions  in 
this  world  of  thinking  men  who  would  and  did ;  and 
that  some  had  gone  to  the  bonfire  and  others  had 
drawn  the  sword  solely  because  they  deplored  it.  I 
added  that,  as  a  matter  of  statistics,  the  majority  of 
his  fellow-subjects  in  this  empire  deplored  it  pro- 
foundly.    We  parted,  I  may  tell  you,  better  friends. 

I  said  too  much  and  talked  like  a  prig,  I  know 
— your  letter,  Sanchia,  and  the  holy  influences  of  this 
place  reprove  me;  but  I  loathe  your  glib  precisian 
like  poison,  and  he  angered  me.  For  that  matter, 
the  most  intolerant  man  I  ever  knew,  without  excep- 


PAN  AND  THE  NYMPHS  109 

tion,  was  an  uncle  of  mine,  one  Simon  Battersby, 
Esq.,  explicitly  a  Free  Thinker.  His  glory  was  in 
his  freedom  from  dogma,  and  yet  the  old  man  was 
bound  and  gagged  by  one.  His  dogma  was,  that  it 
was  wicked  to  go  to  church;  and  if  any  one  belong- 
ing to  him  did  it,  he  was  morally  shocked.  The  end 
of  him  was  this.  All  his  children  went  High  Church, 
and  one  a  Roman  Catholic  priest.  He  cut  them,  one 
by  one,  out  of  his  will;  refused  them,  one  by  one, 
his  hospitality.  Poor,  horrible  old  galley-hand !  An- 
other yoked  slave  for  you  to  add  to  your  collection. 

I  don't  go  to  church  often  myself — unless  I  creep 
in  by  your  skirts — because  I  can't  be  so  aware  of 
high  God  within  four  walls  as  I  can  out  of  doors; 
yet  I  am  very  capable  of  believing  that  a  common 
symbol  of  moral  direction  and  a  common  focussing- 
point  for  the  emotions  are  valuable  things.  I'll  go 
as  far  as  that  with  their  reverences.  Take  the  roof 
off  your  church  or  knock  a  wall  down  and  I'm  with 
you  directly.  The  God  for  me  is  old  Terminus,  a 
Roman  God.  He  alone  of  many,  when  the  whole 
Latin  hierarchy  were  asked  whether  they  would  re- 
sign their  altars  in  favour  of  a  new-comer,  one  Jove, 
said  that  he  would  not.  He  was,  you  must  know,  a 
three-cornered  old  post,  who  stood  in  the  Forum  and 
served  as  a  boundary.  This  made  him  extremely 
important.  So  they  had  to  give  him  an  altar  in  the 
Temple  of  Capitoline  Jove,  and  as  he  insisted  that 
he  could  only  be  worshipped  in  the  open  air,  were 
forced  to  leave  a  hole  in  the  roof  for  him.  That's 
why  the  Pantheon  is  open  to  the  sky  to  this  day. 


no  OPEN  COUNTRY 

Brave  old  Terminus!  But  give  me  the  sky  if  I  am 
to  see  God.  Wasn't  it  Wendell  Holmes  who  said 
that  he  didn't  approve  of  growing  oaks  in  flower- 
pots? Wise  man — making  proverbs,  like  Polonius. 
It's  by  no  means  that  I  mind  the  people — unless  they 
have  their  best  clothes  on,  which  they  don't  on  week- 
days. I  think  that  a  crowd  really  awed  by  a  Presence 
is  a  moving  experience;  and  the  emotion  is  catching. 
You  get  that  abroad,  in  Southern  France  (at  the 
Saintes-Maries,  for  instance),  notably  in  Russia. 
Once,  in  Moscow,  I  saw  an  ikon  being  exhibited  to 
the  people:  it's  done  once  in  a  while.  The  Square 
was  packed,  a  sea  of  white  faces  (the  Russians  are 
ghastly  white,  all  like  ghosts) — all  turned  one  way. 
Every  eye  fixed,  every  mouth  open.  The  priests 
came  out,  a  gorgeous,  absorbed  throng  of  them;  and 
we  all  quivered.  Then  there  was  a  hush  like  death, 
while  certain  juggleries,  bowings  and  signings  were 
doing  among  them.  We  all  had  our  eyes  intent  upon 
the  Thing  under  a  gold  veil.  The  Thing  was  lifted 
up,  flashed  naked  for  a  minute.  Every  soul  there 
fell  prone  to  the  earth,  myself  included,  I  can  tell 
you;  and  the  Spirit  of  God  brooded  over  Moscow 
for  a  space  of  time.  Wonderful!  If  you  want  that 
kind  of  thing,  or  anything  like  it,  in  our  country,  you 
must  go  to  the  trooping  of  the  colours  on  the  Queen's 
Birthday.  It's  all  we  have  left  of  a  national  religion 
— absolutely  all.     And  a  fine  thing  it  is. 

My  own  particular,  personal  thrill,  to  be  got  within 
four  walls,  comes  to  me  in  a  Cathedral  (which  must 
be  Anglican  for  the  purpose),  when  they  are  singing 


PAN  AND  THE  NYMPHS  iii 

evensong  in  a  shut  choir,  and  there's  a  handful  of 
people  in  the  nave — a  hushed  tourist  or  so,  some 
faithful  enthusiast  whose  day  is  made  for  him  by 
such  ceremonial,  and  a  sprinkling  of  holy  women — 
nurses,  nuns,  or  whatever.  You  hear  a  mumbled 
lesson,  or  guess  at  it;  then  there's  a  pause  of  prepara- 
tion and  suspense.  Then,  out  of  the  grey  stillness, 
a  boy's  young  voice  goes  spearing  and  trembling  up ; 
and  you  forget  all  about  the  shock-headed  rogue  in 
his  tumbled  surplice,  and  believe  for  a  few  blessed 
moments  that  he  is  quiring  with  the  young-eyed 
cherubim.  So  he  is,  and  so  may  you  be,  while  you 
can  believe  it.  And  there's  the  secret  out. 
A  poet  said — 

God  first  made  man,  and  straightway  man  made  God, 

and  spoke  profound  truth  in  his  little  chirpy  para- 
dox. That's  why,  for  me,  all  religions  are  true,  and 
each  religion  false.  Each  of  them  will  exclude  all 
the  others — like  the  jealous  Hebrews  of  old  time,  or 
Mahomet  with  a  Koran  in  one  hand  and  a  scimitar 
in  the  other  for  nous  autres;  like  our  friend  of  Tarsus, 
who  has  much  to  answer  for;  yes,  my  dear,  and  like 
the  Bradlaughs  and  Ingersolls  of  our  day,  or  my 
spluttering  old  Uncle  Simon,  who  used  to  gnash  his 
wicked  gums  at  the  church-going  bell,  and  stoke  the 
fires  of  a  Gehenna  of  his  own  for  the  likes  of  your 
brave  and  reverend  Parson  Twisden,  and  your  own 
dear  obsequious  head,  bowed  in  a  fair  place  to  a  fair 
emblem  of  God  the  Father  in  God  the  Son. 

I  don't  know  that  I  ought  to  talk  to  you  of  these 


112  OPEN   COUNTRY 

things.  I  never  have  yet,  you'll  allow.  Nor  would 
I  now  if  you  hadn't  asked  me.  And  yet  I'm  deadly 
serious  over  it,  and  in  the  vein;  and  you  know  that 
I've  too  much  respect  for  my  own  store  of  Poesy  ever 
to  breathe  a  tarnish  on  yours.  One  is  so  contrived, 
I  think,  that  one  can't  hurt  a  soul  without  hurt- 
ing one's  own.  Shall  I  go  on?  In  all  reverence, 
I  shall. 

The  indisputable  fact,  as  I  take  it  to  be,  that  every 
man  must  make  God  in  his  own  image  assures  me 
that  every  man  also  makes  Him  aright.  I  am  pre- 
pared to  accept  the  handiwork  of  any  honest  man 
who  goes  a-God-making.  Others,  of  whom  there 
aren't  so  many  as  you  might  think,  don't  count. 
Every  man  is  honest,  and  every  woman  good,  when 
in  love;  and  you  can't  make  a  God  unless  you  love 
him  first.  When  you  are  in  love,  Sanchia,  as  I  hope 
you  will  be  some  day  (and  I  there  to  rejoice  in  the 
sight),  all  the  loveliest  things  you  ever  dreamed  of 
or  have  distilled  out  of  the  million  things  you  have 
come  up  against  will  go  into  what  you  love.  For 
you  won't  love  a  man  so  much  as  the  image  you  make 
out  of  him  and  yourself;  and  so  surely  as  you  have 
made  your  own  God,  so  surely  (Heaven  be  with  you!) 
you  will  make  your  lover.  All  that  he  will  provide 
will  be  a  peg  for  you  to  hang  your  garlands  and  fair 
draperies  upon.  The  fairer  your  good  thoughts,  the 
happier  your  good  experiences,  the  nobler  will  he 
show  up  for  your  bedecking  of  his  pegship.  He  will 
be  your  fairest  work  of  art,  Sanchia;  and  unless  I'm 
partial — which  is  absurd,  of  course — he  ought  to  be 


PAN  AND  THE  NYMPHS  113 

a  very  goodly  sight.     I  tell  you,  I  want  to  see  the 
fellow. 

If  Religion  is  not  that,  then  I  am  an  ass.  It's  pure 
Poetry,  I  believe;  the  best  thing  you  can  make,  made 
out  of  the  best  things  you  have  collected,  and  passed 
through  your  mind  at  its  best.  There  are  such  a  lot 
of  them  too!  The  flush  of  dawn — there'll  be  a  lot 
of  that  still  wonder  in  your  God;  the  wrath  of  a 
storm;  music;  the  rhythm  (endless,  world  without 
end)  of  running  water;  children's  voices;  an  old 
man  blessing  a  young  one;  a  young  man  louting  to 
an  old  one  (a  beautiful  thing);  a  windless  evening 
in  autumn,  when  the  sky  is  translucent  violet,  faint- 
ing to  white,  and  the  moon  rides  out,  colour  of  an 
old  coin;  the  sun  on  a  brown  hill;  hares  at  play  in 
young  corn;  a  mother  cat  in  lazy  ease  (all  her 
troubles  over),  gravely  watching  her  kittens,  and 
purring  entire  contentment ;  any  mother  of  any  baby, 
and  any  father  of  any  fine  young  man  ready  to  go 
out  into  the  world;  any  girl  with  her  sweetheart, 
any  boy  on  his  first  adventure;  day  and  night;  rain; 
spring  sounds — lambs  in  the  pasture,  the  cuckoo  over 
the  copse;  the  sea  asleep  and  the  sea  in  a  rage — out 
of  all  these  wonders,  O  Sanchia,  you  have  made  Him 
you  worship,  and  will  one  day  make  him  you  are  to 
cherish.  There's  no  need  to  separate  them,  they  are 
indistinguishable.  And  well  for  us  that  it  is  so. 
Who,  what  poet,  do  you  suppose,  first  saw  God  in 
the  Sacrament?  Why,  a  Greek  of  course,  who  saw 
more  in  wine  than  a  fermented  liquor,  and  more  in 
wheaten  bread  than  flour  and  water.     "The  earth 


114  OPEN  COUNTRY 

and  its  store"  went  into  those  emblems.  They  re- 
ceived, who  did  receive,  more  than  a  breakfast  who 
took  that  morning  meal.  The  Greek  was  a  meta- 
physician as  well  as  a  poet;  but  he  was  more  poet 
than  metaphysician.  Plato  used  to  deal  with  Good- 
ness, Temperance,  and  Justice  as  if  they  were  crystal 
forms,  cubes,  or  spheres  to  be  weighed  and  handled ; 
so  did  the  rest  of  his  race.  The  Word  of  God  in- 
carnate, under  their  conduct  of  the  notion,  was 
to  be  got,  whole  and  entire,  in  a  flake  of  white 
bread. 

And  who  showed  us  God  in  the  Mother  and 
Child?  Why,  the  Romans,  of  course,  who  knew 
by  their  need  what  a  Mother  was  and  what  a  Son 
should  be.  They  knew  that  there  lay  our  tap-root 
— for  we  are  earthy  of  the  earth:  wife  and  child, 
hearth  and  roof-tree,  you  know.  You  and  I  are 
neither  spouses  nor  parents,  but  I  suppose  we  learned 
the  truth  of  that  from  our  mothers'  laps. 

I  don't  think  that  we,  as  a  race,  have  done  Chris- 
tianity much  but  harm.  We  might  have  been  better 
left  to  our  Wotan,  Fricka,  and  Frey,  But  Christ's 
religion  started  as  a  pure  Anarchy,  and  we've  got  it 
down  to  a  rigid  Oligarchy.  It  started  as  pure  Emo- 
tion, and  we've  turned  it  into  a  code  of  Ethics.  It 
,  was  Poetry,  we've  made  it  sticky  Prose.  It  was 
'  everything  in  this  world  and  the  next ;  it  is  now  a 
negligible  thing  here;  and  as  to  elsewhere,  we  are 
beginning  to  be  cautious  how  we  believe  in  that. 
Now,  the  moment  you  turn  poetry  into  prose  you 
begin  to  tell  lies.     That's  odd,  but  perfectly  true. 


PAN  AND  THE  NYMPHS  115 

But  we  live  in  herds  in  these  days;  we  huddle  in 
fenced  cities,  or  round  a  great  man's  house;  we 
build  ships  of  war  and  train  hosts  of  young  men  how 
to  shoot  each  other  in  order  that  we  may  huddle 
the  snugger,  and  be  sure  that  Hans,  or  Alphonse, 
or  Wilbur  K.  don't  come  and  huddle  here  too.  And 
so  religion  has  got  socialised  and  become  a  national 
affair.  Hence  the  Trooping  of  Colours  and  many 
honest  tears. 

Men  will  die  for  that  sort  of  religion,  too,  and 
kill  their  neighbours  for  not  agreeing  with  them. 
It  becomes  a  question  of  patriotism,  don't  you  see 
— with  this  odd  result,  that  if  you  want  to  see  any 
religion  at  its  best  nowadays,  you  must  go  into  a 
country  where  it  isn't  recognised.  Those  who  have 
it  are  on  their  mettle  there.  Look  at  the  Catholics 
with  us  in  England,  and  try  to  realise  what  they 
must  have  been  like  before  the  Reformation.  Sleek 
and  stodgy.  Look  at  the  Protestants  in  Ireland. 
As  for  our  blessed  fellow-countrymen,  if  you  want 
to  see  them  truly  religious,  and  meaning  it  from  the 
bottom  of  their  hearts,  go  and  see  them  at  church 
on  the  verandah  of  a  Swiss  hotel — in  their  black 
coats  and  pressed  trousers — all  the  women  in  gloves ; 
and  the  curate,  who  was  in  knickerbockers  on  Sat- 
urday and  will  be  in  them  on  Monday,  saying, 
''Dearly  beloved  Brethren,"  in  a  throaty  voice, 
which,  thank  the  Lord!  he  will  lose  all  the  rest  of 
the  week.  That's  us,  my  dear,  very  nearly  at  our 
absurd  best,  and  how  absurd  it  is  I  despair  of  show- 
ing.    If  you  want  to  see  us  at  our  very  best,  you 


ii6  OPEN   COUNTRY 

must  go,  as  I  tell  you,  to  the  Trooping  of  the  Col- 
ours. 

The  Trooping  of  the  Colours!  And  that  silly 
ass  who  thought  that  Pan  was  a  joke  of  mine!  I 
hope  I  don't  make  such  bad  jokes  as  that. 

Now,  with  those  Colours  in  his  mind,  who  dares 
to  say  that  Pan  and  the  Nymphs  are  not?  No 
countryman,  I'll  go  bail.  Wlio  said.  Pan  is  dead? 
Some  fawning  rogue  who  wanted  to  pay  a  compli- 
ment. Pan  dead!  He  is  not  dead,  and  will  never 
die.  Wherever  there's  a  noonday  hush  over  the 
Weald,  wherever  there's  mystery  in  the  forest,  there 
is  Pan.  Every  far-sighted,  unblinking  old  shep- 
herd up  here  afield  with  his  dog  knows  all  about  him, 
though  he'll  never  tell  you  anything  of  what  he  knows. 
He  hasn't  got  his  name  right,  very  likely;  but  he  has 
got  Imn.  Every  oak  tree  hides  a  Dryad ;  the  Oreads 
foot  it  on  the  heath,  and  the  Nereids  cling  to  the  wet 
rocks  where  the  green  water  lips  their  backs  and 
surges  up  over  their  slippery  shoulders.  Surely, 
in  a  world  of  wonders,  there's  room  and  to  spare 
for  the  Souls  of  Things,  seen  only  by  poets,  but  felt 
by  all  country  people.  And  what  of  Artemis? 
Well,  .you  know  what  I  think  about  her.  So  long 
as  youth  is  clean  and  quick  and  eager,  so  long  will 
Artemis  the  Bright  fleet  along  the  hill-tops — and 
that  will  be  for  ever  and  ever,  the  Lord  be  praised! 
People  with  souls  know  these  things,  and  people 
without  souls  don't  count.    They  must  be  born  again. 

I  sometimes  think  that  the  root  of  our  disease 
lies  in  our  bloated  bodies;    and  then  I  think  that 


PAN  AND  THE  NYMPHS 


117 


it's  in  our  stifled  mindfi.  Really,  I  believe  it's 
much  of  a  muchness.  We  deceive  ourselves  be- 
cause we  want  to.  We  prefer  lies,  on  the  whole, 
to  truth.  We  like  luxury  so  much  that  we  are  con- 
tent to  be  bound  hand  and  foot  by  it;  we  are  such 
slaves  to  sentiment  that  we  would  go  to  the  stake 
for  things  which  are  palpably  false  and  absurd.  In 
a  sense,  you  can't  believe  too  much,  and  can't  have 
a  too  receptive  mind.  Who  supposes  that  I  decry 
belief  in  the  supernatural?  Why,  I  hardly  believe 
in  anything  else.  The  supernatural  only  means 
the  soul  of  the  natural — absolutely  no  more  than 
that.  And  who's  ashamed  to  say  that  he  believes  in 
miracles  ?  Miracles !  Why,  everything  is  a  miracle. 
Life,  Death,  sunrise,  the  opening  rose,  the  wind  in 
the  pines.  Is  Art  no  miracle?  Poetry?  Dear 
God!  And  if  it  be  true,  as  your  physic-monger 
says  it  is,  that  Art  and  Poetry  are  the  result  of  the 
fermenting  or  not  of  certain  alimentary  juices,  and 
that  the  real  question  is  one  for  the  liver — then  the 
miracle  is  the  more  astounding.  Pray,  what  does 
it  matter  to  the  lover  whether  he  cries  out  that  his 
heart  or  his  liver  is  afire?  The  abiding  glory,  the 
triumph  and  splendour  of  the  world  is  that  it  is 
afire.  My  dear,  he  who  writes  to  you  now  knows 
what  he  is  talking  about.  He  says,  Believe  all  you 
can,  but  tell  yourself  no  lies.  Never  say  that  you 
believe  what  you  don't  believe — or  you'll  come  to 
grief.     But  he  must  write  no  more. 

Address  me  P.O.,  Petersfield.     Farewell,  Sanchia, 
as  the  Anthology  says,  "ten  thousand  times." 


ii8  OPEN  COUNTRY 

Is  there  no  Religion  in  this?  ''To  bristly- 
haired  Pan  and  the  Nymphs  of  the  farmstead, 
Theodotus  the  shepherd  lays  this  gift  under  the 
rock,  because  they  stayed  him  when  very  weary 
under  the  parching  summer,  holding  out  to  him 
honey-sweet  water  in  their  hands." 


CHAPTER  XI 

FIRST  APPEARANCE   OF  MR.   NEVILE  INGRAM 

A  YOUNG  Mr.  William  Chevenix,  smooth-faced, 
flaxen,  assured,  and  very  friendly,  was  a  buttress  of 
the  Percival  family,  that  is,  of  the  younger  mem- 
bers of  it,  and  was  of  quite  remarkable  convenience. 
He  could  be  reckoned  upon,  you  see,  to  give  and 
take  confidences,  never  to  be  impress^  unless  im- 
pressement  were  required  of  him,  to  be  chaperon, 
brother,  cousin,  or  even  uncle — whichever  might 
be  proper  to  the  occasion.  He  attended  Philippa 
Tompsett-King's  drawing-room  meetings,  took  Mel- 
usine  to  picture-galleries  and  held  her  parasol  and 
catalogue  for  her,  matched  crewels  for  Hawise,  and 
was  always  game  to  stand  Vicky  a  little  dinner  with 
a  music-hall  afterwards.  "Lectures  at  the  Royal 
Institution"  these  were  called  by  a  pardonable 
euphemism.  As  he  explained,  If  the  Empire  wasn't 
a  royal  institution,  he  didn't  know  one  when  he  saw 
it.  Similarly,  the  history  of  the  Alhambra  fully 
justified  its  inclusion.  He  had  taught  Sanchia  tip- 
cat in  his  day,  and  met  her  at  it  with  enthusiasm 
until  by  mischance  he  broke  the  pince-nez  of  Frau- 
lein  Winkiewicz  when  that  instrument  was  on  duty. 
Then  tip-cat  was  succeeded   by  games  of  chance 

119 


I20  OPEN  COUNTRY 

with  the  cards.  He  was  a  very  amiable,  good- 
tempered  young  man,  rather  slangy  in  conversation; 
but  Mr.  Percival  trusted  him — which  was  much; 
and  Mrs.  Percival  respected  him — which  was  more. 
He  was  well-connected,  and  had  an  Aunt  Maria, 
who  was  Lady  Maria  Wenman.  He  had  no  other 
occupation  whatsoever. 

Now,  Mrs.  Percival,  her  head  (it  may  be)  slightly 
turned  by  the  Pinwell-Percival  wedding,  which  was 
a  great  success,  gave  a  dance  in  early  July,  and  most 
indulgently  allowed  Sanchia  to  attend  it.  Sanchia, 
still  in  her  twentieth  year,  was  not  yet  "out,"  ac- 
cording to  Mrs.  Percival's  decree.  Next  year  she 
would  be  presented,  all  being  well,  and  then  might 
be  allowed  to  coruscate;  but  Hawise  had  married 
brilliantly,  and  Sanchia's  debut,  after  all,  had  been 
at  Gorston,  and  this  was  to  be  a  very  small  dance. 
Mr.  Percival,  I  regret  to  have  to  record,  called  it  a 
"hop,"  until  Vicky  told  him  seriously  that  he  really 
must — not — do  it.  He  said  meekly,  "Very  well, 
my  dear;  but  hop  it  is;  and  hop  you  will  until  your 
toes  come  through  your  stockings."  And  then  he 
pulled  her  ear,  and  Vicky  kissed  him,  and  all  was  well. 

To  this  dance  Mr.  William  Chcvenix  offered  to 
bring  a  friend.  Mclusinc  and  Vicky  would  have 
accepted  him  gladly;  but  he  had,  as  he  said,  "to 
make  it  all  right  with  the  lady,"  beforehand.  "Hope 
you  won't  mind,  Mrs.  Percival;  I  do  hope  you  won't 
mind,"  he  had  said  when  he  made  his  proposal. 
Mrs.  Percival  had  replied  that  she  had  no  doubt  it 
would  be  delightful. 


MR.  NEVILE  INGRAM  121 

But  Chevenix  had  pursued  his  thought.  "You 
never  know,  you  know,  how  a  hostess  will  take 
that  kind  of  thing.  There's  Mrs.  John,  now — my 
brother  John's  wife — look  at  her!  Some  will  sweep 
'em  in  like  a  dustman,  and  some  are  very  sniffy. 
Now  you're  not  like  either  of  those,  Mrs.  Percival. 
That's  the  beauty  of  you.  You  say,  Who's  your 
friend?     Very  properly." 

Mrs.  Percival  had  not  said  so;  but  she  was  cer- 
tainly pleased  to  be  thought  capable  of  it,  and  still 
more  so  to  be  well  marked  off  from  the  dustman. 
She  now  smiled  and  bowed,  saying,  "You  are  most 
kind";  and  she  added,  as  was  expected  of  her, 
"And  who  is  your  young  friend?" 

Chevenix  at  once  became  apologetic,  extenuat- 
ing. "Well,  you  know,  I  don't  suppose  he's  much 
of  a  chap — for  your  set,  you  know.  Not  an  intel- 
lectual johnny  by  any  manner  of  means.  You 
know  what  Eton  and  Sandhurst  turn  out.  Turn 
'em  out  by  the  round  dozen,  spin  'em  off  a  lathe, 
you  might  say,  all  of  a  piece.  Master  Nevile  was 
at  Eton  with  me — didn't  do  much  that  I  remem- 
ber, except  a  sotihrette  in  Moliere  in  a  Fourth  of 
June.  Then  he  went  to  Sandhurst — they  got  him 
into  the  Guides.  Soldierin'  was  always  his  game 
— pugnacious  old  chap  he  used  to  be.  Well,  then, 
old  Ingram,  his  governor,  you  know — Ingram  of 
Wanless,  awfully  set  up  about  that;  Ingram  of 
Wanless,  and  don't  you  forget  it — that  kind  of  line, 
they  take — old  Ingram  dies,  you  see,  so  Master 
Nevile  succeeds,  and  takes  his  seat,  as  they  say — and 


122  OPEN  COUNTRY 

there  you  practically  are.  Nevile  Ingram,  Esquire, 
of  Wanless  Park,  Felsboro' — that's  the  man." 

He  saw  this  sink  in,  then  broke  out  querulously, 
as  if  deploring  his  taste  in  friends,  "I  don't  say 
you'll  like  him,  and  I  don't  say  you  won't.  No 
Shakespeare  and  musical  glasses  about  Nevile,  you 
know.  Rich  chap — well-bred  and  all  that.  Oh, 
they're  good  people,  those  Ingrams,  you  know. 
No  connection  with  that  lot  in  Duchess's  Gate, 
mind  you.  Soap-boilers  they  were:  I  happen  to 
know.  The  Wanless  party's  a  different  set  alto- 
gether. And  a  lively  customer  at  a  dance!  He 
can  shake  a  leg,  as  they  say.  Ah,  and  you  ought  to 
see  him  on  a  horse,  Mrs.  Percival.  That's  where 
Nevile's  at  home.  He's  got  a  seat!  Plays  for  the 
Go-Betweens  at  Hurlingham.  He's  at  it  to-day,  I 
believe:  he's  mostly  at  it.  Oh,  he's  not  under  a 
bushel,  you  know  —  old  Nevile.  No,  no.  He's 
well  alight.  What  is  it?  Burning  upwards  to  his 
point  of  bliss,  eh?  I  forget  these  things  so.  But 
there  he  is,  don't  you  know.  And  of  course  it's 
just  as  you  feel  about  it — it's  exactly  there.  I  take 
the  ofhce,  as  they  say,  from  you — bring  Master 
Nevile — and  then  wash  my  hands.  That's  how  I 
look  at  him,  you  see." 

Mrs.  Percival  accepted  Mr.  Ingram  on  these 
testimonials  and  he  came  to  the  dance. 

There  were — by  similar  exertions  on  the  part  of 
similar  young  gentlemen — a  sufficiency  of  dancing 
men,  and  there  were  some  very  pretty  girls.     But 


MR.   NEVILE  INGRAM 


123 


it  did  so  happen  that  the  Misses  Percival  were  the 
prettiest  girls.  They,  as  Mr.  WiHiam  Chevenix 
confided  to  his  friend  Nevile  Ingram,  were  "bad  to 
beat  in  that  department."  Melusine,  glowing  and 
graceful,  in  pale  blue;  Vicky,  sparkling  like  a  dia- 
mond, in  Caroline-Testout  pink;  and  Sanchia,  slim 
and  faintly  flushed,  in  white  chiffon — with  great 
wide  child's  eyes  in  the  face  of  a  Goddess — were 
three  Graces  not  often  to  be  matched.  Old  Mr. 
Percival,  who  stood  for  the  most  part  in  the  door- 
way with  his  friend  Etherington  (of  Copthall  Court), 
choked  as  he  said  more  than  once,  ''Look  at  my 
three,  Bob,  my  boy,  and  show  me  three  to  match 
'em — anywhere!"  Mr.  Etherington  owned  that  he 
could  not.  "Tom,"  he  said,  "I  congratulate  you, 
and  I  envy  you.  Bravo,  The  Poultry!  I  only  wish 
I  had  three  boys  to  pair  off  with  'em."  But  Mr. 
Percival  here  shook  his  head,  and  was  understood 
by  Bob  very  well  to  mean  that  that  would  never 
have  done.  There  had  been  Mrs.  Percival  to 
reckon  with  there.  In  fine,  the  floor  was  good,  the 
music  was  good,  the  maidens  were  fair,  the  youths 
were  toward — and  once  more  all  was  well. 

Mr.  Nevile  Ingram  of  Wanless,  having  made 
his  bow  and  murmured  his  nothings  to  his  hostess, 
entered  the  room,  and  surveyed  it  and  its  treasures. 
He  was  a  wholesome-looking,  confident,  and  clean- 
cut  young  man  of  five  foot  ten  or  thereabouts,  with 
healthy,  bright  blue  eyes  and  the  bronzed  cheeks 
of  a  soldier.     His  head,  whose  hair  was  inclined 


124  OPEN  COUNTRY 

to  be  reddish,  was  most  smooth,  and  his  coat  gripped 
his  neck  tighter  than  any  man's  present.  He  was 
indeed  faultlessly  dressed,  in  clothes  which  were  not 
new,  but  looked  as  if  they  were:  his  collar  gleamed 
upon  his  tanned  skin  like  snow  in  the  sun.  His 
moustaches,  which  were  not  large,  had  been  curled 
with  tongs,  to  leave  his  upper  lip  bare.  That  was 
a  pity  because  the  lip  itself  curled  back  a  little,  with 
an  appearance  of  snarling.  He  looked  you  straight 
in  the  face  when  he  talked  to  you,  and  seemed  to 
take  everything  you  said  or  did  as  a  matter  of  course, 
and  not  to  be  greatly  interested  in  it.  He  played 
the  part  of  squire  of  dames  languidly,  as  if  it  was  an 
effort,  but  always  just  in  time,  so  that  you  had  noth- 
ing to  complain  of.  His  conversation  was  free  and 
confidential;  yet  he  spoke  clearly,  as  if  the  whole 
world  might  overhear  him  for  aught  he  cared.  Pre- 
sented to  Mclusine,  he  bowed,  smiled,  and  said, 
"Greatly  charmed."  Then  he  asked,  "Have  you 
a  dance?"  and  made  a  note  of  it  upon  his  shirt-cuff. 
Melusine  afterwards  owned  that  he  danced  well, 
extremely  well ;  but  she  thought  that  he  wanted  tact. 
She  couldn't  explain  herself:   one  felt  it,  she  said. 

Vicky  sized  him  up  at  a  glance  as  "good  family 
and  vile  temper,"  offered  him  a  Lancers,  decided 
that  she  didn't  want  him,  was  very  cool  to  him, 
didn't  listen  to  what  he  was  saying.  That  he  saw, 
and  ceased  to  speak.  Then  Vicky  dropped  him, 
for  Sanchia  to  pick  up  if  .she  chose.  She  had  no 
choice  in  the  matter;  but  she  was  the  only  one  left, 
and  he  paid  her  his  attentions. 


MR.  NEVILE   INGRAM 


125 


They  danced  twice,  and  sat  out  more  than  twice. 
It  was  on  the  second  of  these  retreats  that  she  inter- 
ested him;  and  that  led  to  the  others.  Taking  him 
very  simply,  she  talked  about  some  of  the  thousand 
things  that  occupied  her  mind,  as  if  they  must  needs 
have  occupied  his  too.  *She  ended  by  impressing 
him  as  a  girl  with  character.  When  Chevenix 
came  to  look  for  her,  the  time  having  come  for  what 
he  called  "their  romp  round,"  he  found  her  dis- 
cussing education.  ''Education — my  hat!"  he  ex- 
claimed.    "Sancie,  you're  going  it!" 

She  had  been  very  much  in  earnest,  using  in- 
cisive phrases,  surveying  life  as  a  whole  with  a 
calmness  as  astonishing  as  it  should  have  been 
pathetic.  Nevile  Ingram,  with  no  eye  for  pathos, 
had  been  gazing  at  her,  drinking  her  beauty  and 
youth  together — a  heady  mixture.  But  now  she 
blushed  and  became  dumb,  and  next  she  beamed 
and  became  a  pretty  girl,  very  ready  for  a  ''romp 
round."  There  is  some  virtue  in  the  Chevenixes 
of  this  world,  after  all;  it  may  be  there's  a  good 
deal. 

She  had  been  enunciating  the  proposition  that 
nobody  should  be  taught  to  read  until  he  is  fourteen 
— "at  least  fourteen,"  had  been  her  extreme  allow- 
ance. By  that  time,  she  judged,  one's  power  of 
seeing  things  and  hearing  them  would  be  well 
trained;  one  would  have  become  aware  of  the 
things  worth  knowing  in  the  world — about  plants 
and  animals,  for  instance,  which  one  simply  knew 
nothing    about    as    things    were    now.     To    all    of 


126  OPEN  COUNTRY 

which,  dehvered  with  the  clear  utterance  and  pre- 
cise conviction  of  a  teacher,  Mr.  Ingram  had  re- 
phed  very  simply,  "By  Gad,  I  believe  you're  right." 
She  had  gone  on  to  say  that  if  you  teach  a  child  to 
read  at  seven,  or  say  eight,  you  merely  glue  his  eyes 
to  a  book — to  book  after  book — for  life.  What  he 
learns,  therefore,  is  what  other  people  know  about 
the  world ;  and  so  it  goes  on — hearsay  upon  hearsay 
— until,  when  you  come  to  her,  Sanchia's,  genera- 
tion, you  are  learning  the  transmitted  reports  of  a 
thousand  years,  and  are  perhaps  no  nearer  the 
facts  than  Plato  was.  To  which  Mr.  Ingram, 
again,  had  replied,  "All  I  know  is.  Miss  Percival, 
that  Fm  no  nearer."  To  himself — when  Chevenix 
had  borne  off  the  Sibyl  for  her  romp — he  added, 
"Well,  I'm  damned."  And  again  he  said,  "She's 
a  perfect  beauty."  This  was  at  the  buffet  below, 
whither  he  had  descended,  being,  as  he  said,  "off 
dancing  after  such  a  go  as  that." 

He  had  another  "go"  before  the  evening  was 
over,  and  plunged  once  more  deeply  into  the  mys- 
teries of  time  and  existence.  Sanchia,  having  found 
her  tongue,  was  quickly  kindled  to  eloquence.  It 
was  not  for  Nevile  Ingram  to  guess  how  this  might 
be;  but  I  may  explain,  as  the  fact  is,  that  a  letter 
from  Senhousc  lay  in  her  bosom,  the  latest  come, 
not  yet  added  to  a  guarded  packet  in  her  writing- 
desk. 

Mr.  Ingram  was  not  her  only  conquest.  It  was 
at  this  dance — before   she  was   out! — that   Sergius 


MR.   NEVILE  INGRAM  127 

Polschkin,  the  young  pianist,  saw  her,  led  her  to 
dance,  and  said  good-night  to  her  with  tears  in  his 
eyes.  ''Fluffy,"  was  Vicky's  name  for  him;  and 
Philippa  called  him  the  Meringue.  We  shall  hear 
more  of  both  these  gentlemen;  but  not  just  yet. 
At  the  end  of  July  the  Percivals  went  out  of  town — 
to  Newquay  for  six  weeks;  and  then  Sanchia  paid 
a  visit  to  her  brother-in-law,  Mr.  Tompsett-King, 
and  her  sister  Philippa.  They  had  taken  a  house 
in  North  Wales,  and  had  the  Reverend  Dr.  Pruce 
staying  with  them,  the  well-known  Assyriologist. 
I  fancy  that  Mr.  Ingram  was  there  for  a  week,  but 
am  not  perfectly  sure.  Sanchia  did  not  mention 
him  in  her  letters  to  Senhouse,  which  were  regu- 
larly maintained. 


CHAPTER  XII 

THE    SECRET    OUT.      SENHOUSE    FROM   CORNWALL    TO 
SANCHIA  IN   CHURCH 

I  NOW  propose  to  make  a  jump  of  some  months, 
though  every  time  I  approach  the  brink  I  hesitate. 
There  is  much  in  the  letters  from  the  young  girl's 
lover,  not  yet  so  owned,  which  would  be  pleasant 
reading,  a  good  deal  in  the  several  deeds  of  the 
pair  which  it  seems  injurious  to  Sanchia's  candour 
to  pass  over.  What  did  she  do  at  Plas  Newydd, 
for  instance,  walking  the  mountain  slopes  with 
Nevile  Ingram?  Or  may  it  have  been  with  the 
Rev.  Dr.  Pruce?  One  doesn't  know:  and  Sen- 
house  didn't  know  either,  for  I  find  that  she  never 
named  either  of  these  gentlemen  in  her  letters. 
She  had  plenty  of  other  things  to  write  about,  what 
she  and  Senhouse  used  to  call  ''real  things"  when 
they  waxed  scornful  over  the  proneness  of  their 
kind  to  talk  about  ''people"  rather  than  "ideas." 
There's  no  doubt  but  that  her  letters  were  full,  nor 
that  his  answers  were  fuller.  She  was  deeply  in- 
terested by  this  time  in  his  scheme  of  life  and  con- 
duct; and  more  than  once  we  find  her  urging  him 
to  continue  his  exposition — "whatever  happens." 
His   replies  laughed — she   could   hear    him    laugh 

138 


THE  SECRET  OUT  129 

across  England.  "Oh,  never  fear  me,  Queen 
Mab!  I'll  preach  you  to  death  before  I've  done 
with  you,"  he  tells  her. 

Meantime  he  is  fast  after  a  score  of  pleasurable 
activities:  he  tells  her  of  them.  '^ Painting  the 
impossible  (of  course),  conspiring  with  liberty- 
mongers  in  divers  tongues,  writing  an  article  on 
Thoreau,  mending  the  seat  of  my  third-best  (or 
first- worst)  pair  of  bags;  there's  for  this  3rd  of 
July."  He  sends  her  three  packed  sheets  from  the 
New  Forest  about  horticulture,  which  he  is  coming 
to  consider  as,  "next  to  music,"  the  most  sensitive 
of  the  fine  arts.  "Properly  allied  to  architecture," 
says  he,  "garden-making  is  as  near  as  a  man  may 
get  to  the  divine  functions.  Music  always  ex- 
cepted, mind  you.  That's  our  highest  point  of 
transcendency;  and  it's  very  odd  that  one  has  to 
be  pretty  near  to  what  the  base  world  calls  a  fool 
to  be  any  good  at  that.  There's  a  sidelight  on  the 
man  at  the  street  comer  for  you — or  on  the  square- 
faced  man  in  the  market-place,  rather.  ..."  Read- 
ing this,  she  may  have  thought  of  M.  Serge 
Polschkin,  whom  love  ravaged  so  easily;  but  it's 
more  likely  that  she  pondered  Man  than  men. 

When  he  finds  himself  in  Vernditch  Bottom  in 
October,  Senhouse  is  in  another  vein.  Sanchia  is 
in  London  again — "ninety  miles  away,  as  the 
machinists  reckon  space";  but  he  would  have  her 
remember  that  space  is  as  much  of  a  convention  as 
time.  "So  you  may  be  as  near  me  as  you  please. 
Queen   Mab;    and   the   nearer  the  better,  say  I." 


I30  OPEN  COUNTRY 

But  he  contradicts  himself  in  the  next  paragraph, 
which  shows  that  time  and  space  have  worked 
their  witchery  upon  him.  He  writes  of  "a  welter 
across  Hants  and  Surrey — and  I  see  your  eyes." 
Before  his  next  letter,  dated  in  November  from 
Abbotsbury  in  Dorset,  he  has  been  with  her  in 
London.  The  odd  creature  comes  in  his  tilt-cart, 
and  picks  up  his  "old  moorings,"  as  he  calls  them, 
in  that  littered  triangle  in  Battersea  which  can  be 
seen  on  your  left  hand  as  you  go  down  to  Brighton. 
It  lies  between  York  Road  and  Clapham  Junction, 
if  I  am  right.  There  are  always  caravans  there, 
owned  by  friends  of  his,  no  doubt.  Thence  he 
made  daily  excursions  into  town,  and  saw  his  Muse, 
his  divine  Mistress,  as  best  he  might.  He  saw  her 
at  Roger  Charnock's  often.  She  dined  in  Grosvenor 
Gardens,  and  once  slept  there.  On  that  occasion 
they  sat  up,  talking  and  reading  poetry  (some  of 
it  his  own),  examining  sketches,  half  the  night; 
and  he  was  able  to  tell  her  next  day-  -in  Kensington 
Gardens,  in  a  white  fog — of  the  magnificent  walk 
home  he  had  had:  London  empty  of  feet,  the  great 
blinking  stars  overhead,  the  touch  of  frost  upon 
their  golden  eyelashes,  and  (at  about  five  o'clock 
in  the  morning)  "the  fog-bank  rolling  up  the  river 
on  the  tide  and  smothering  the  houses  in  white 
silence.  Extraordinary!"  he  cried,  "to  hear  Big 
Ben  hushed  down  to  a  child's  treble!  I  never  went 
to  bed  till  seven — and  had  breakfast  at  nine."  The 
National  Gallery  was  another  trysting-place,  and 
the  sculpture  gallery  of  the  British  Museum.     His 


THE  SECRET  OUT  131 

Greek  lore  helped  her  there.  But  mostly  he  chose 
to  be  with  her  in  the  open  air:  "I  don't  know  you 
without  the  wind  on  your  cheeks.  Since  I  saw 
you  first  in  Gorston  Thicket,  you  and  the  West 
Wind  seem  the  same  person  to  me."  She  received 
this,  as  she  received  much  of  the  sort,  with  a  shy 
glance  of  happy  pride.  He  went  as  far  as  he  dared 
in  her  praise;  but  his  reverence  never  let  his  heart 
out  of  hand.  She  never  got  any  harm  from  him, 
and  knew  that  she  never  could  get  any.  Her  con- 
fidence in  him,  indeed,  was  one  of  the  sharpest 
trials  he  had  to  suffer.  Honour  to  him  that  he 
came  through  unstained,  though  he  would  have 
been  shocked  at  the  proffer  of  it. 

He  saw  nothing  of  her  people,  nor  they  of  him. 
For  him  they  did  not  exist.  She  was  a  Goddess, 
an  incarnate  Essence;  she  was  Arcadian  Artemis 
gracing  earth  once  more;  how  should  she  have 
people?  Neither  for  her  did  they  exist  during 
that  week,  though  she  came  and  went  among  them, 
out  and  in;  and  Vicky  urged  her  chariot  wheels 
over  gentlemen's  hearts,  and  Melusine  inclined  her 
head  to  what  Mr.  Gerald  Scales  had  to  say;  and 
my  Lady  Pinwell  was  in  London  for  the  autumn 
session;  and  Mr.  Nevile  Ingram  was  expected  at 
Brown's  Hotel.  These  things  were  not  for  a  week 
— a  wonderful,  uplifting  week  when  the  soles  of  her 
young  feet  seemed  to  touch  the  planets  as  they 
launched  her  into  space.  But  it  ended,  as  such  weeks 
must  end.  He  went  his  wandering  ways  again,  and 
resumed  his  letters  and  reassumed  his  philosophy. 


132  OPEN  COUNTRY 

He  now  writes  of  "our  blissful  se'nnight,"  and 
then  breaks  off  with  a  *'No  more  of  that!  I  suffer, 
you  suffer,  thought  suffers,  the  Kingdom  of  God 
on  Earth  suffers.  There's  a  conjugation  of  a  most 
irregular  verb,  and  all  because  the  Apostle  of 
Freedom-in-a-Ditch  turns  flaneur  for  the  sake  of 
a  pair  of  deep-blue  eyes.  No,  Queen  Mab,  no! 
I'm  happy  to  be  over  the  hundred  miles  from  the 
centre  of  my  System.  Anything  under  that  silly 
figure  seems  to  me  next  door — and  then  of  course 
I  run  in  to  say  'Good  morning.'"  "Why  on  earth 
should  I  want  to  see  you?"  he  cries  in  his  next. 
"Have  I  not  the  tongues  of  men  and  of  angels, 
pen  in  hand?  Who  gets  such  piercing  answers  as 
I  to  my  written  catechisings  ?  I  scorn  the  man 
who  depends  upon  lip-service,  eye-service,  or  the 
touched  hand  for  his  soul's  daily  bread.  At  least, 
I  hope  I  do." 

Shortly  after  this  I  take  up  the  tale  with  this, 
my  third  selection  from  his  letters.  She  has  in- 
vited him  to  be  explicit,  and  he  becomes  so.  The 
secret  is  out,  in  more  senses  than  one. 

Land's  End,  Christmas  Day. 

A  touch  of  frost  in  the  air,  enough  to  make  it 
brown  at  the  edges;  a  deathly  calm  over  the  sea. 
The  surging  of  the  main  is  as  faint  as  a  sleeper's 
breath,  just  a  rhythm  of  rise  and  fall.  Out  on  the 
smooth  water  flocks  of  sea-birds  float,  their  heads 
under  their  wings.  Not  a  breath  of  air.  I  heard 
the   church   bell   of   Saint   Ives   this   morning   dis- 


THE   SECRET   OUT 


^33 


tinctly,  calling  the  faithful  to  seven  o'clock  sacri- 
fice. I  could  almost  believe  it  was  Saint  Botolph's 
calling  you.  Truly,  I  did  think  so,  and  grew  ex- 
cited and  fantastic.  I  bowed  the  knee  to  the  great 
God  Terminus,  calculated  the  variation  of  the 
clock  between  Marylebone  and  Marazion,  and 
followed  your  devotions  faithfully  from  "Ye  that 
do  truly  and  earnestly"  to  "The  peace  of  God." 
I'm  a  fool,  you  know,  exulting  in  his  foolishness. 

And  then  I  re-read  your  Christmas  letter,  which 
I  got  yesterday,  and  perpended  your  questions — 
such  a  string  of  them!  What's  my  secret?  Can 
no  one  learn  it?  Am  I  to  be  the  Second  Wisest 
Man  on  Earth,  and  is  nobody  to  be  the  Wisest 
Woman?  Won't  I  tell  you  how  I  manage  to  be 
happy  ?  What's  my  way  of  salvation  ?  Et  cetera. 
Et  cetera.    Et  cetera. 

Oh,  it's  ridiculous  that  it  should  be  a  secret  at 
all;  it's  humiliating  that  it  should  be  hard  to  learn. 
I'm  ashamed  of  myself  sometimes  (when  the  old 
time-serving  Adam  lifts  up  his  bruised  head  and 
gibbers  at  me)  that  I  should  be  so  happy  and  the 
rest  of  the  world  so  miserable;  but  then  I  sit  up 
and  shake  my  fist  at  my  countrymen,  and  rail  at 
them.  "Blind,  deaf,  dumb  brutes  that  ye  are! 
(Hear  me  reprove  this  generation.)  All  my  shame 
is  for  you.  Clogged  by  filthy  things  about  the 
feet — your  money,  sham  honour,  sloth,  vanity, 
gluttony;  clogged  by  sticky  things  about  the  heart, 
and  stodgy  things  about  the  head — your  respect 
for  what  is  unvenerable  in   age,  your  fear  of  im- 


134  OPEN  COUNTRY 

mortal  youth,  your  misdoubt  of  your  neighbour's 
worthless  judgment — how  can  I  be  other  than 
ashamed  of  you,  who  have  but  to  straighten  your 
backs  and  lift  your  hands,  and  say.  We  are  men, 
to  find  out  that  you  are  so?"  x\nd  reflecting  that 
that,  simply,  is  the  conclusion  of  the  whole  matter, 
such  heat  becomes  absurd.  The  thing  has  but  to 
be  stated,  you  would  say.  No,  no.  They  don't 
know  it,  because  they  won't.  They  have  lived  so 
long  on  lies  that  they'd  starve  on  truth.  Well, 
well,  let  'em  wallow,  tied  by  the  leg  in  their  styes. 
But  if  I  were  autocrat  I'd  make  it  penal  for  any 
one  to  have  more  than  a  hundred  and  fifty  a  year; 
and  to  him  who  could  do  on  a  hundred  I'd  resign 
the  throne  as  to  the  wisest  of  us. 

The  Many  must  change  and  pass  as  best  they 
can;  but  to  you,  who  are  of  the  Elect,  asking  me 
how  one  is  to  be  free,  I'll  tell  you — there's  only  one 
way.  Whether  you  desire  to  be  free  to  live  at  large 
on  this  jolly  green  earth,  or  free  to  have  your  con- 
versation in  heaven,  there's  only  one  way.  You 
are  free,  really.  All  right  then:  act  as  if  you  were. 
Drop  all  the  rest;  walk  away  from  it  into  the  Open 
Country.  Fields  of  England,  Elysian  fields — there 
arc  no  hedges.  Forsake  all  and  go  there.  Take 
nothing  with  you — nothing,  nothing.  Upon  my 
solemn  word  of  honour,  that^s  all. 

Why,  take  my  own  case.  Here  am  I,  ordinary 
third  son  of  ordinary  English  parents:  father  an 
alderman,  mother  a  clergyman's  daughter,  brothers 
at  the  bar  or  the  Stock  Exchange  (one  at  Lloyd's), 


THE  SECRET   OUT 


135 


sisters  flirting  with  curates  or  going  to  mothers' 
meetings;  nothing  more  entirely  of  the  staple  to  be 
conceived;  different,  in  fact,  from  my  kindred  only 
in  this,  that  I  lead  a  free  life  while  they  are  fast 
bound  in  misery  and  iron.  And  I'll  tell  you  the  ins 
and  outs  of  it  now — on  this  quiet  morning,  on  this 
quiet  cliff,  looking  over  that  sleeping  sea.  You 
are  entitled  to  them,  since  you  are  become  part  of 
them;  you,  Sanchia,  with  your  quiet  ways  and 
wondering,  wonderful  eyes.  .  .  . 

It  was  at  Cambridge  that  I  found  out  what  a 
fool  I  was  teaching  myself  to  be.  From  1881  to 
1884  (which  was  my  third  year)  it  had  been  gradu- 
ally dawning  upon  me,  I  suppose,  though  it  came 
with  a  rush  at  the  end.  Before  that  I  had  been  the 
bird's-nesting  schoolboy  of  conamon  acquaintance. 
True,  I  had  always  been  fond  of  Greek  and  couldn't 
help  drawing — but  that  was  literally  all  I  was  to 
the  good. 

I  don't  know  just  how  or  why  I  found  out  what 
I  had  to  do,  if  I  was  to  justify  myself  to  myself.  In 
spite  of  myself  I  suppose  that  I  was  discovering 
that  everything  you  bought  with  money  tied  you 
up,  more  or  less,  to  that  thing;  and  that  the  fun  you 
got  out  of  the  thing  that  you  bought  was  as  nothing 
compared  to  the  freedom  you  lost  by  getting  it. 
That  must  have  been  a  cerebral  process  unawares; 
but  one  morning,  anyhow,  I  woke  up  outraged  by  the 
ceiling  of  my  room,  shocked  at  the  four  walls  of  it. 
I  seemed  to  be  strangling;  I  thought  that  they  were 
closing  in  upon  me.     Shades  of  the  prison-house, 


136  OPEN   COUNTRY 

'saith  he!  Yes,  old  Wordsworth,  but  the  growing 
boy  don't  know  that  they  are  there,  and  so  they  ain't; 
but  the  growing  man  does.  From  that  hour  I  panted 
for  breathing-room,  and  found  that  every  blessed 
thing  I  touched,  and  called  mine,  was  so  much 
clog-and-hamper.  The  four  walls  of  the  Nine- 
and-Thirty  Articles  seemed  more  deadly  than  brick 
and  mortar;  and  ahead  of  me  I  could  see,  yawning 
like  a  grave,  the  black  hull  of  Dingeley  Main  Col- 
liery, where  I  was  to  toil  in  order  to  imprison  my- 
self yet  more  tightly;  whither  I  was  surely  bound,  one 
of  a  manacled  file  of  convicts,  hounded  on  by  the 
shocking  necessity  of  being  ''settled  down."  Set- 
tled down!  Devilish  formula,  which  condemns  us, 
generation  after  generation,  to  vegetate — and  rot — 
and  rot! 

I  chucked  everything,  as  you  know.  I  walked 
out,  I  disappeared.  I  walked,  as  a  matter  of  fact, 
to  King's  Lynn,  and  got  there  lateish.  I  found 
a  solemn-looking  buster  in  an  inn-yard  ruminating 
over  an  ostler  at  his  horse,  and  jingling  half-crowns 
in  his  breeches  pockets.  That  was  the  rhythm  of 
his  life — "Property,  property,  property";  but  he 
was  better  than  he  seemed — had  a  kink  in  him 
somewhere  which  saved  him.  We  got  talking. 
He  was  a  good  sort,  with  a  humorous  twist  on  his 
long  face,  and  a  good  twinkle  in  his  heavy  eye. 
Presently  I  said,  "I'll  tell  you  what.  It's  time  for 
dinner.  I'll  toss  you  who  dines  the  other."  He 
looked  at  the  ground,  then  at  me — heavily.  Then 
he   said   with   tremendous   solemnity,    "Done   with 


THE  SECRET  OUT 


137 


you,  codger."  We  tossed  with  one  of  his  half- 
crowns,  three  times,  and  I  won.  That  was  a  friendly 
turn  (one  of  many)  done  me  by  Pan  and  the  Nymphs, 
or  by  Artemis  Einodie,  Our  Lady  of  the  Ways;  for 
I  give  you  my  word  I  hadn't  a  stiver  nearer  than 
Cambridge.  ''I've  lost,  it  appears,"  says  the  chap. 
I  said,  ''You've  lost  more  than  it  appears,  for  I 
lunched  off  a  turnip."  He  was  a  sportsman,  though, 
and  did  the  thing  as  well  as  could  be.  We  sat  talk- 
ing till  long  past  midnight;  and  I  was  his  guest  for 
bed  and  breakfast. 

Next  day  I  was  on  the  North  Sea  in  a  trawler, 
working  my  way  out — and  infernally  ill,  by  the 
way.  We  were  four  days  going  over;  but  they 
put  me  ashore  in  North  Holland,  and  I  tramped 
to  Alkmaar. 

I  nearly  starved  in  that  country — you  see,  I 
didn't  know  the  language;  but  the  weather  was 
superb,  and  I  got  through  all  right  into  Germany. 
There  I  knew  I  could  get  on,  because  I  had  things 
to  give  them  which  they  wanted.  Germany  is  the 
best  country  in  Europe  in  which  to  go  to  market 
with  your  knowledge.  They  really  want  it  off  you, 
you  see.  I  stayed  in  a  little  town  called  Wissening 
for  three  months  or  so,  at  pedagogy.  I  gave  lessons 
in  English  and  Greek,  and  earned  nearly  five  pounds 
one  way  and  another.  That  gave  me  what  I  was 
bound  to  have  (and  what  I  had  at  Cambridge  too; 
only  I  was  on  my  mettle,  don't  you  see,  and  wouldn't 
send  for  anything.  I  wasn't  going  to  communicate 
with    England    until    I    could    report    that   I    was 


138  OPEN  COUNTRY 

keeping  myself) — I  mean  colours,  and  boards,  and 
some  brushes,  and  all  that.  I  got  these  in  Berlin, 
and  pen  and  ink  too;  and  then  I  set  to  work,  and 
have  never  had  to  look  back.  I've  kept  myself 
ever  since,  and  will  take  credit  for  this,  moreover, 
that  I've  been  wise  enough  never  to  earn  more 
than  I  want,  or  to  save  anything.  Directly  you 
do  either  of  those  things,  say  I,  you  drive  a  peg 
through  your  foot  into  the  ground,  and  you  root. 
Sick?  Of  course  I've  been  sick,  and  mighty  sorry 
for  myself.  But  I've  skirmished  through  some- 
how; and  people  have  been  very  good.  They 
are,  you  know;  nearly  everybody  is  very  good. 
One  of  my  maxims  is  that  there  are  no  such  things 
as  nations;  and  another  that  every  man  is  worth 
shaking  hands  with  for  something  or  other.  (I've 
proved  'em  both.)  My  worst  time  was  in  Siberia, 
where  a  woman  of  no  character  whatever,  accord- 
ing to  the  wiseacres  of  this  world,  proved  to  me 
that  she  had  a  great  deal.  Anna  was  her  name — 
Anna  Marievna.  She  would  have  nourished  me 
with  her  blood,  good  soul,  if  she'd  had  any.  But 
blood  was  at  famine  prices:  the  Russians  took 
care  of  that. 

All  that  was  in  '84-5;  and  here  we  are  ten  years 
on,  and  I've  been  as  happy  as  the  days  are  long 
ever  since,  and  as  free  as  a  bird  of  the  air.  Look- 
ing back  on  it,  I'm  surprised  at  two  things  only — 
the  deadliness  of  the  disease  and  the  simplicity  of 
the  remedy.  Why  every  mother's  son  of  us  don't 
do  it  beats  me  altogether.     Poverty,  Temperance, 


THE  SECRET  OUT  139 

and  Simplicity — these  three.  But  the  greatest  of 
these  is  Poverty.  That's  what  I  and  the  Socialists 
will  have  to  fight  about.  They  want  everybody  to 
be  rich,  and  I  say  they  are  aiming  then  at  Murder 
and  Suicide. 

If  you  come  to  think  out,  really,  how  you  grow, 
mentally,  morally,  and  physically,  you'll  find  that 
you  do  it  by  wanting  things.  They  are  above  you, 
out  of  reach;  you  want  them  very  badly;  they 
won't  come  to  you ;  so  you  grow  until  you  can  reach 
them.  Then — strange  thing ! — when  you  have  them, 
when  they  are  under  your  hand,  you  learn  that 
(without  knowing  it)  you  have  been  enjoying  them 
all  the  time  you  were  growing  after  them — your 
growth,  in  fact,  consisting  in  that — and  that  conse- 
quently you  don't  want  them  at  all,  but  rather  de- 
sire, and  must  by  all  means  have,  those  other  things 
up  there,  still  higher  and  just  out  of  reach.  So  you 
go  on  craving,  and  go  on  growing  and  reaching  up; 
and  up  and  up  you  grow  until  presently  you  find 
yourself  at  the  top  of  all  your  desires  except  one. 
By  that  time  you  are  too  old  to  grow  any  more, 
and  only  want  to  go  to  sleep.  And  behold!  there 
at  the  top  sits  friendly  Death,  with  a  warming-pan. 

Broadly  speaking,  that's  the  process.  And  take 
notice  that  there's  no  healthy  condition,  and  no 
happiness  whatsoever,  unless  we  do  grow.  No 
happiness  whatsoever,  O  Sanchia,  unless  we  grow 
every  hour  of  our  lives.  That's  as  sure  as  Fate. 
Think  it  out;  knit  your  brows  over  it,  and  you'll 
see. 


I40  OPEN  COUNTRY 

That's  the  first  thing  to  keep  in  your  mind,  my 
dear,  when  you're  about  considering  what  you 
want  and  how  you're  to  get  it.  What  you  really 
want  out  of  life  is  ability  to  develop — to  grow. 
Now,  it's  plain  enough,  I  hope,  that  you  can't 
want  things  which  you've  got  already,  or  can  get 
in  exchange  for  money  or  privilege;  and  that  you 
can't  reach  after  things  if  some  hireling  is  for  ever 
ready  to  put  them  in  your  lap.  Consequently,  if 
you  have  money,  or  the  privilege  of  class,  being 
born,  as  they  profanely  say,  with  a  gold  spoon  in 
your  mouth,  you  can't  be  healthy,  because  you 
can't  grow.  I  hope  that's  a  point  in  favour  of 
Destitution.     It  ought  to  be,  to  the  candid  mind. 

I  don't  want  to  write  a  treatise;  but  I'm  very 
keen  on  all  this — and  anyhow  it's  your  fault.  The 
next  thing  you  want — and  it's  the  same  thing — is 
to  be  happy.  I  should  like  to  know  who  doesn't 
want  to  be  happy  ?  Now  that,  they  say,  is  a  relative 
state.  And  yet  it's  not,  you  know.  There's  really 
only  one  state  of  happiness,  since  Process  and  not 
Rest  is  the  law  of  this  world,  and  that's  Acquisition. 
Possession  isn't  happiness  at  all.  Possession  is 
static,  Acquisition  ecstatic.  So  long  as  this  world 
spins  and  wheels  round  the  sun,  so  long  shall  we  be 
at  our  best  when  we  conform,  and  spin  on  our  own, 
and  wheel  round  the  Sun  of  our  Desire.  To  have 
a  thing  cannot  be  blissful,  but  to  have  had  it  may 
be,  and  to  be  about  to  have  it  exquisite  joy.  The 
past  should  be  lovely,  and  the  future  must  be  so. 
The    present    (and    there's    no    such    thing    really. 


THE   SECRET  OUT 


141 


Everything  flows,  said  the  Sage,  and  even  as  he  said 
it  the  moment  had  gone) — the  present  is  merely  a 
breath:  time  for  a  flash  of  reminiscence  or  prepara- 
tion, and  then  on  you  go.  Present  possession, 
therefore,  is  a  delusion;  and  if  it  were  a  real  thing, 
as  some  fools  try  so  hard  to  make  it,  consciousness 
of  it  would  only  be  contentment — not  happiness. 
Contentment  is  a  swinish  thing.  The  man  who  is 
content  has  done  growing,  and  will  immediately 
begin  to  rot — like  a  bulb,  unless  you  start  him  grow- 
ing afresh. 

Oh,   take  an   illustration  which  comes   pat  just 

now,  while  K and  Co.  are  bellowing  about  our 

greatness,  and  all-red  maps  of  Europe.  Heaven 
about  us,  here's  a  confusion  of  thought — muddy 
brainwork!  Hear  them  befoul  the  "Little  Eng- 
enders,"  my  dear  soul;  by  which  term  they  are 
pleased  to  refer  to  the  Englander  before  the  Em- 
pire— the  men,  I'll  trouble  you,  of  the  Armada  and 
the  days  before  Waterloo.  Drake  a  Little  Englander, 
Cromwefl,  Wolfe  and  Moore  and  Wellington,  Little 
Englanders  all.  The  heroes,  according  to  these  fel- 
lows, are  the  men  who  Imve  an  Empire,  not  the  men 
who  made  it.  It's  heroic  to  possess  a  thing,  eh? 
Who  will  teach  'em  to  think  straight? 

To  have  an  Empire  is  not  heroic  at  all.  To 
have  had  one  may  be,  to  be  getting  one  may  be. 
We  were  a  race  of  heroes  from  Crecy  to  Waterloo, 
but  since  then  have  been  merely  swine,  grunting 
our  contentment  and  repletion.  We  may  be  heroes 
again  some  day  when  we've  done  wallowing;    but 


142  OPEN  COUNTRY 

meantime  persons  who  believe  themselves  patriots 
are  doing  all  they  know  to  stave  off  that  day  by 
heaping  armaments  and  bluffing  Europe.  Heroes, 
we!  Why,  we've  got  degeneration  of  the  heart. 
We're  like  Fat  Women  at  a  fair — at  the  best,  curi- 
ous, and  rather  disgusting.  But  all  this  is  neither 
here  nor  there. 

And  now,  if  you'll  tell  me  how  we  are  to  grow, 
or  be  happy,  or  get  our  faculties  free  unless  we  are 
poor,  I  shall  be  very  much  obliged  to  you,  and  will 
go  back  to  the  Dingeley  Main  Colliery  to-morrow, 
and  wear  a  black  coat,  and  pay  taxes.  But  you 
can't — and  nobody  can. 

Mind,  Body,  and  Estate,  Poverty  is  the  only 
hope.     Have  nothing. 

Have  nothing — and  you're  thrown  back  on  what 
is  inside  you.  That's  your  own,  and  all  that's 
worth  having. 

Have  nothing — and  the  broad  world  is  your  fee. 

Have  nothing — and  you're  neither  clogged  about 
the  brain  nor  the  feet. 

Have  nothing,  and  you  have  no  looking-glass. 
Without  a  looking-glass  you  don't  know  what  you 
look  like;  and  if  you  don't  know  that,  you  cease 
to  wonder  whether  your  neighbour  sees  you  as 
fine  a  fellow  as  you  see  yourself.  Almost  all  our 
troubles  in  England  come  from  that:  we  are  aw- 
fully set  up  by  the  appearance  we  make  to  our- 
selves, and  miserably  apprehensive  of  the  conclu- 
sions the  rest  are  drawing  of  us.     We  daren't  be 


THE  SECRET  OUT  143 

ourselves,  lest  we  be  taken  unawares,  and  Jones, 
or  Jones'  man,  see  us  with  our  armour  off.  Did 
I  ever  tell  you  that  I  saw  a  Colonel  of  Light  Horse 
walk  do\vn  the  Tornabuoni  in  Florence  carrying 
a  fish  in  newspaper  under  his  arm?  I  did  it 
though.  Any  country  in  Europe  has  more  freedom 
than  ours.  Why?  Because  it  has  fewer  looking- 
glasses. 

"As  having  nothing,  yet  possessing  all  things." 
I'm  not  very  fond  of  the  Levantine,  but  by  George 
he  was  right  there.  And  of  course  he  was  a  mag- 
nificent sophist. 

So  now  abide  for  you,  Queen  Mab,  Poverty, 
Temperance,  Simplicity — these  three.  But  the  great- 
est of  these  is  Poverty.  For  if  you  are  poor  you 
will  find  Temperance  repay  you;  and  since  you 
can't  afford  a  looking-glass,  you  will  remain  as 
simple  as  you  are  sweet. 

By  the  bye,  you  mustn't  take  my  short  cut  to 
happiness,  you  know.  Don't  go  off  to  King's 
Lynn,  there's  a  dear.  It  led  me  near  to  knavery, 
I  believe,  when  I  tossed  for  a  dinner.  Keep  you 
to  the  high-road,  dear  one,  and  shed  your  baggage 
by  degrees.  Ah,  that  broad  high-road!  If  we 
two  could  share  poverty,  and  hear  the  stars  bid  us 
good-night!  If  the  great  Open  Country  could  be 
seen  for  a  goodly  heritage  by  two  pair  of  eyes,  and 
if  two  tongues  could  voice  Nunc  Dimittis  at  the 
last  milestone!  We  live  by  growing,  say  I?  And 
we  are  happy  in  aspiring?  Yes,  but  to  have  had  is 
good  too;    and  I,  poverello,  have  had   something, 


144  OPEN  COUNTRY 

Sanchia.     Nay,    nay,    I    have   had   good    measure. 
And  so  farewell. 

Here's  a  text  for  you,  not  from  the  Anthology, 
but  from  the  learned  Epictetus,  an  antick  sage. 
''Think  you,"  says  he,  "you  can  be  a  wise  man, 
and  continue  to  eat  and  drink  and  be  wrathful, 
and  take  offences  as  you  have  been  used?  Nay, 
but  you  must  watch  and  labour,  my  man,  and  with- 
draw yourself  from  your  household,  and  be  despised 
by  any  serving-boy,  and  be  quizzed  by  your  neigh- 
bours, and  take  the  last  place  all  the  world  over. 
.  .  .  Consider  these  things,"  he  saith,  "whether 
you  are  willing  at  such  a  price  to  get  Peace,  Freedom, 
and  an  Untroubled  Spirit.  And  if  you  are  not,  then 
attempt  it  not,  nor,  like  a  child,  play  now  the  phil- 
osopher, then  the  tax-collector,  then  the  orator, 
then  the  Procurator  of  Caesar.  For  these  things 
agree  not  among  themselves,  and,  good  or  bad,  it 
behoves  you  to  be  One  Man.  You  should  be  per- 
fecting your  power  over  yourself,  or  over  your  out- 
ward snugness;  spending  yourself  on  the  life  within 
you,  or  on  the  life  without.  That  is  to  say,  you 
must  take  your  place  either  among  Men  or  Swine." 

A  wise  man  that. 


CHAPTER  XIII 

MR.   N.   INGRAM  ON  THE  POETS  AND 
PHILOSOPHERS 

Before  that  letter  was  written — a  month  before 
— Mr.  Nevile  Ingram,  that  blue-eyed  confident 
young  man,  came  to  London  from  Wanless,  and 
installed  himself  at  Brown's  Hotel.  His  friend 
Chevenix  dined  with  him  at  the  Coffee-Tree  Club 
and  they  went  on  afterwards  to  the  Alhambra,  and 
elsewhere.  I  don't  propose  to  trace  the  impress 
of  their  neat  pumps,  but  it's  my  duty  to  record  a 
snatch  of  their  conversation  at  the  Coffee-Tree. 

Ingram,  when  the  walnuts  and  port  had  been 
reached,  asked,  "By  the  way,  are  your  friends  the 
Percivals  got  back  yet?"  and  Chevenix  stared  at 
him. 

''Bless  you,  yes.  Lord  bless  you,  yes.  Course 
they  are.  Why,  old  Tom  Percival's  a  city  mag- 
nate. How  about  the  Mansion  House?"  And  he 
reflected.  "Why,  I  don't  suppose  old  Tom's  missed 
a  Lord  Mayor's  Show  for  thirty  years.  I  don't 
suppose  he's  ever  had  more  than  a  month's  leave 
since  he  got  any  leave  at  all.  Bank  Holidays  and 
Saturdays  to  Mondays  are  his  game.  And  the 
Lady's  a  better  housekeeper  than  you'd  take  her 
for.     She'll  not  trust  old  Tom  alone  for  more  than 

145 


146  OPEN  COUNTRY 

six  weeks — not  she.  Two  months  at  the  outside. 
No,  no.  Mamma's  a  downy  bird,  a  very  downy 
bird — and" — he  spoke  with  sudden  energy — "and 
don't  you  forget  it,  Nevile." 

Ingram  flattened  a  walnut.  "Why  should  I  re- 
member it?"  he  asked  calmly,  and  Chevenix  stared 
anew  and  snorted. 

"You're  a  cool  fish,  you  know,"  he  said.  "I'll 
do  you  that  credit.  You  don't  sing  to  one  clear 
piano  in  divers  tones.  Not  you.  You  take  a  line, 
I'm  dashed." 

Then  Ingram  drained  his  glass,  and  poured  an- 
other. "I  met  one  of  'em — no,  two  of  'em,  in  Wales 
in  September.  At  the  married  sister's — a  Mrs. 
Something-King  —  sharp-tongued  woman  with  an 
owl  of  a  husband."  Chevenix  was  looking  at  him 
narrowly,  disregarding  all  this  surplussage. 
Then  you  met  Sancie?" 

That,"  said  Ingram,  "was  exactly  who  I  did 
meet." 

"Then,"  said  Chevenix  with  conviction,  "you 
met  the  very  pick  of  the  basket." 

Ingram  nosed  his  port,  then  sipped  it;  then  said, 
"So  I  think." 

It  was  now  to  be  seen  that  Chevenix  was  agi- 
tated. He  crossed  and  rc-crosscd  his  leg,  used  his 
finger-bowl,  tied  his  napkin  into  a  knot,  said,  "Damn 
this  pub.  Why  can't  a  man  smoke  when  he's 
done  eating?"  frowned,  grew  red  in  the  face. 

"Look  here,  Nevile,"  he  said  finally,  "are  you 
going  to  call  there?" 


a  < 


INGRAM   ON  THE  POETS  147 

Ingram  said,  "I  think  so.     Why?" 

Chevenix  threw  himself  back,  and  said  it  was 
infernally  hot.  The  place,  he  said,  was  a  ghastly 
bakehouse.  ''Have  some  more  port,"  Ingram  pro- 
posed; but  he  replied,  "Damn  port,"  and  called 
for  coffee  and  old  brandy. 

With  these  refections  at  hand  he  was  revived, 
and  grew  more  deliberate  in  speech. 

"Now,  look  here,  Nevile,  my  boy,"  he  began; 
and  Ingram  did  look  there.  "We  must  have  no 
hole-and-corner  business  over  this.  I  like  those 
people.  I've  known  'em  all  my  life.  I  like  'em 
all,  except  the  Lady  and  Philippa — and  no  one  in 
his  senses  could  like  them.  But  they're  not  your 
sort,  you  know,  not  one  bit  they're  not.  They're 
simple,  jolly,  plain  people — who  love  their  fun,  and 
are  keen  on  all  sorts  of  things  that  you've  never 
heard  of.  Poetry,  good  Lord!  Shakespeare — and 
Byron — and  John  Keats.  Bless  you,  they're  gone 
on  Keats.  They  think  he  was  ripping.  And  I 
daresay  he  was.  But  that's  not  your  line  of  country 
at  all — no!  nor  Thoreau  either,  and  Plato  and 
those  kind  of  philosophical  johnnies.  WTiat's  all 
that  to  you?  You  want  Ruff's  Guide,  you  know— 
and  Soapy  Sponge;  good  old  Facey  Rumford!" 
He  stopped,  flushed  and  inspired.  Ingram,  star- 
ing, sipped  his  port. 

"Now  take  Sancie  Percival,"  Chevenix  went  on. 
"She's  a  baby,  you  know— in  a  way;  and  yet  she's 
got  a  head  on  her  which — well,  a  head  which — 
beats  a  cock-fight,   by   George!    There's  a  lot   in 


148  OPEN   COUNTRY 

front  of  that  girl — I  know  there  is.  I  can  see  it 
all  coming  as  plain  as  I  can  see  you're  taking  too 
much  port.  You  always  do,  you  silly  old  ass. 
You  always  did."  He  shook  his  head.  "I'm 
awfully  fond  of  Sancie.  She's  a  queer  young  cus- 
tomer— and  as  pretty  as  they  can  be  made  on  this 
planet,  so  far  as  my  experience  goes.  Now  look 
here,  Nevile" — and  with  his  elbows  on  the  table  he 
looked  closely  at  his  friend — "what  are  you  up  to?" 

"Up  to?"  said  Ingram.     "Nothing." 

"I  hope  not,"  said  Chevenix,  "with  all  my  soul. 
Because  I  don't  forget — if  you  do — that  it  was  I 
who  took  you  there — and  made  it  all  right  with 
the  Lady — and" — he  lowered  his  voice,  but  hissed 
the  words  in  his  energy — "and  never  said  a  sylla- 
ble about  your  private  affairs  either.  Now  what  do 
you  make  of  that?" 

Ingram  looked  bored.  "I  make  nothing  of  it," 
he  said.     "What  can  be  made  of  it?" 

"I'll  tell  you,"  said  Chevenix,  and  struck  the 
table.     "A  clean  breast  can  be  made  of  it." 

Ingram  gloomed  at  the  littered  table.  "Damn 
her,"  he  said.     "God  damn  her." 

Chevenix  said,  "Exactly."  Then  they  went  to 
the  Alhambra,  and  elsewhere. 

I  think  that  perhaps  Mr.  Chevenix  did  his  friend 
some  injustice — I  mean  did  some  injustice  to  his 
standing  towards  the  poets  and  philosophers.  I 
am  not  prepared  to  admit  that  Ingram  knew  as 
little  about  them,  or  cared  as  little,  as  did  Mr. 
Chevenix  himself.     I  know  that  for  the  best  part 


INGRAM  ON  THE  POETS  149 

of  a  month — before  he  went  to  Cairo  for  Christmas 
— he  spent  a  great  deal  of  his  time  poring  over  the 
Prometheus  Unbound  of  Shelley,  and  that  Vicky 
Percival,  home  from  a  party  in  the  quarter  just  be' 
fore  midnight,  raised  her  eyebrows  more  than  once. 

"What!  Still  at  it?"  she  used  to  say.  ''You 
two  will  make  yourselves  ill.  It  will  all  come  out 
in  spots  on  your  foreheads,  and  then  Mr.  Ingram 
will  dab  on  black  plaster,  and  Sancie  will  powder 
herself.  It  can't  be  worth  it;  no  poetry  could  be. 
Sancie,  my  dear,  go  to  bed.  Am  I  very  late?  Did 
mamma  say  anything  ?  I  did  try  to  go,  lots  of  times ; 
but  they  said  it  would  spoil  everything." 

Ingram  used  to  say,  "It's  all  right.  Miss  Vicky. 
I  made  it  all  square  for  you.  You  can  always  leave 
that  to  me." 

Vicky  would  look  at  him  with  bright  eyes,  full, 
however,  of  thought.  "I  should  very  much  like 
to  know  what  can  be  left  to  you,"  she  would  say, 
"and  what  can't."  Then  she  would  ask,  "When 
are  you  going  to  Cairo,  by  the  way?"  and  his  answer 
would  be,  "Any  moment."  As  she  said,  as  Chevenix 
had  said,  he  was  a  very  cool  hand. 

I  don't  know  how  far  they  got  in  the  PrometJieus 
during  those  autumn  nights;  but  Ingram  was  cer- 
tainly faithful  to  it — and  of  course  the  reading  of 
poetry  does  permit  of  excursions  into  fact,  by  way 
of  comment.  He  was  very  much  interested  in  Pan- 
thea's  famous  line — 

Their  shadows  make 
The  space  within  my  plumes  more  black  than  night, 


I50  OPEN  COUNTRY 

directly  he  had  had  explained  to  him  the  extraor- 
dinary imaginative  force  in  them — the  visualisation, 
we  may  call  it.  "That's  clever  of  you,"  he  said, 
"to  see  all  that  in  it.  I  should  never  have  thought 
of  that.     It's  awfully  clever." 

She  explained  honestly.  "A  friend  of  mine 
pointed  it  out.  Of  course  I  should  never  have  seen 
it  for  myself.  In  fact,  I  had  read  Prometheus  be- 
fore, lots  of  times,  and  thought  nothing  of  Panthea's 
wings." 

Ingram,  at  his  favourite  trick  of  looking  at  her 
as  if  he  was  drinking  her,  here  twisted  his  mouth. 
"You've  got  lots  of  clever  chaps  about  you,  I  ex- 
pect," he  said  ruefully.  "That's  the  worst  of  me. 
I'm  such  a  dunce.  Now  all  these  friends  of  yours 
will  be  swells — poets  and  all  that?" 

"There's  only  one  of  them,  you  know,"  she  said, 
smiling.     "I  only  know  one  poet." 

" Oh, come," hesaid,  "that's  better  than  I  thought." 
She  made  no  answer.  His  next  speech  was  undoubt- 
edly sincere. 

"I'm  very  much  in  earnest,  you  know,  about  this 
kind  of  thing.  A  man  can  be  keen  on  poetry  with- 
out being  a  poet.  I  know  I  am.  It  does  me  a  power 
of  good.  It  makes  a  better  chap  of  me  all  round. 
Thanks  to  you." 

She  corrected  him.     "Thanks  to  Shelley." 

"No,  to  you,"  he  insisted.  "Where  on  earth 
should  I  have  been  without  you?  Some  filthy 
hole!     Killing  tigers — or  peacocks!" 

"Mr.  Senhouse,"  she  said,  "the  Poet,  thinks  it 


INGRAM   ON  THE  POETS  151 

rather  horrible  to  kill  animals.  He  thinks  it  quite 
horrible.  He  says  we  can't  make  them  to  save  our 
lives;  we  can  only  blow  them  to  bits.  That's  what 
he  says." 

''He  would,  you  know,"  Ingram  said,  and  added 
after  a  moment,  "By  George,  and  he's  perfectly 
right.  A  man's  a  butcher.  It's  sickening.  But 
you'll  pull  me  through,  Lliss  Sancie.  I  never  knew 
what  life  was  until  I " 

Sanchia  said,  "Let's  go  on — shall  we?"  She 
covered  her  cheeks  with  her  hands. 

"We  wiU,"  he  agreed.  "We'll  stick  to  Shelley. 
Now  for  the  Furies.  You  be  First  Fury,  I'll  be 
Second — and  so  on."  And  at  it  they  went — to 
"The  struggling  world,  which  slaves  and  tyrants 
win."  Then  came  some  commentary  upon  slavery 
and  tyranny  in  general,  some  Anarchism  out  of 
Senhouse's  wallet,  and  the  assurance  from  Ingram 
that  some  forms  of  slavery  suited  him  excellently, 
and  that  some  forms  of  tyrants  could  do  as  they 
chose  with  him.  "They  have  only  to  lift  a  little 
finger — a  very  little  finger  indeed — to  have  me  at 
their  feet."  And  then,  opportunely,  Mrs.  Percival 
came  into  the  schoolroom  and  showed  an  interest 
in  the  students. 

Sanchia's  own  interest  in  Ingram,  I  am  certain, 
so  far,  was  purely  didactic.  I  am  speaking  of  the 
month  before  Christmas.  He  was  most  receptive; 
she  could  practise  on  him  what  had  been  preached 
to   her,   hand    on    her   stores   from    Senhouse.     In 


152  OPEN  COUNTRY 

order  to  teach  any  one  you  must  be  able  to  formu- 
late your  own  knowledge;  there  must  be  no  hazi- 
ness. She  was  a  conduit,  a  most  enthusiastic  con- 
duit: it  was  exquisite  to  her  to  feel  the  thrill  of  the 
steady  stream  coursing  through  her  mind.  Having 
an  exact  memory,  she  forgot  nothing  of  what  she 
had  been  told,  rehearsed  it  all  copiously,  and  was 
grateful  to  her  pupil  when  he  asked  for  more.  He 
had,  of  course,  the  wit  to  see  that  this  was  so,  and  to 
make  the  most  of  his  chances.  Moreover,  he  was 
honestly  and  explicitly  in  love  with  her.  He  didn't 
conceal  it  for  a  moment — any  more  than  did  Sen- 
house.  She  saw  it,  knew  it  without  seeing — and 
waived  it.  It  was  interesting,  even  flattering;  but 
she  still  had  other  things,  more  important  things, 
to  think  about  and  to  do.  If  it  is  sweet  to  learn  of  a 
friend,  it  is  sweeter  to  teach  a  friend;  and  she  had 
persuaded  herself  that  Ingram  was  a  friend. 

Gallant,  noble,  inspired  young  creature — the  risks 
she  ran!  Her  confidence!  Her  intrepidity!  But 
one  must  face  them  in  her  honour  and  praise:  they 
are  essential  to  the  understanding  of  her  martyrdom. 
Her  passion,  if  it  was  to  come,  was  late  in  coming: 
at  this  hour  of  hers  Scnhouse  was  exactly  right  in 
defining  her  as  he  did.  The  Virgin  unconscious 
of  virginity,  the  Chaste  by  preoccupation.  She  was 
that.  There  are,  of  course,  two  kinds  of  virgin. 
There's  the  deliberate  Virgin,  to  whom  the  state  is 
in  itself  holy,  for  whom  Athena  stands;  and  there  is 
the  Virgin  in  fact,  who  has  no  thought  of  being  other- 
wise, who  is  concerned  with  one  thing  at  a  time. 


INGRAM   ON  THE   POETS  153 

who  cannot  pause  in  her  wild  quest  to  think,  am  I 
holy,  am  I  spotless  ?  On  her  brow  Artemis  of  Arcady 
lays  a  cooling  hand,  and  teaches  her  the  grace  of 
guarded  lips.  Senhouse  knew  this,  and  thanked 
God  to  know  it :  but  what  of  Mr,  Ingram  ?  What  of 
Mr.  Chevenix's  friend  of  the  Alhambra,  and  else- 
where ? 

I  shall  do  him  justice.  He  knew  nothing  of  all 
this,  but  he  felt  it — at  present.  He  loved;  was  in 
that  early  stage  of  the  passion  when  the  beloved  is 
a  Revelation  from  Heaven,  "half  angel  and  half 
bird."  Something  held  him  back — him,  too,  who 
was  not  accustomed  to  refuse  what  came  his  way. 
All  time  was  before  him,  the  time  for  wanting,  the 
time  for  fearing  loss,  and  the  time  to  claim  and  grasp. 
Just  now  he  basked — as  a  young  man  full  of  his 
new  virility  will  be  contented  in  the  sunshine,  pres- 
ently to  be  stirred  by  the  glory  and  tingle  of  it  to 
scale  mountains,  hunt  swiftly,  to  seize  and  kill,  then 
to  eat  and  drink  with  healthy  appetite. 

But  Ingram,  withal  a  young  man,  had  a  good 
deal  of  experience  behind  him.  He  had  been  his 
own  master  through  a  long  minority,  and  had  been 
of  age  eight  years  at  least.  With  a  fine  income, 
large  estate,  hearty  appetite,  and  few  scruples.  Wan- 
less  had  bowed  down  to  him,  London  had  been  very 
kind.  That  which  he  needed  seemed  so  obviously 
his  due  that  he  had  been  forced  more  than  once  by 
an  overpopulated  world  to  look  alive  for  his  chances. 
He  had  always  had  what  he  seriously  wanted,  but 
had  sometimes  had  to  exert  himself  to  get  it.    This 


154  OPEN  COUNTRY 

made  him  wary.  On  the  occasion  of  that  Shelley 
discussion  to  which  I  have  just  referred — or  imme- 
diately after  it — he  had  advised  with  himself  about 
Sanchia's  friend.  Who  was  this?  Was  he  possibly 
— could  he  possibly — ?  Difficult  questions:  he 
turned  the  possibilities  about.  A  close  commen- 
tator, this  fellow:  keen  on  poetry — which  was  first- 
rate  stuff,  mind  you,  if  you  had  the  right  sort  of  girl 
to  read  with — a  queer  fish,  too,  with  his  notions  about 
shooting;  a  sort  of  anarchical  fellow,  what?  Sen- 
house  by  name.  Who  was  this  Senhouse?  He 
might  have  to  be  reckoned  with  at  a  pinch.  But 
on  the  whole — no!  Ingram  classified  him  loosely, 
for  convenience,  as  a  "philosophical  johnny,"  prob- 
ably rather  old.  Eye-glasses  and  a  bald  head,  he 
thought,  would  meet  the  case.  Put  at  that,  he  was 
not  dangerous. 
And  so  much  for  John  Maxwell  Senhouse. 


CHAPTER  XIV 

SENHOUSE  ON  CIVILISATION 

Senhouse  stayed  out  the  winter  at  Land's  End, 
engaged  in  the  absorbing  pursuit  of  naturalising 
Alpine  plants  upon  the  faces  of  rock  there.  Twice 
a  week,  sometimes  oftener,  he  wrote  to  Great  Cum- 
berland Place;  once  a  week,  sometimes  less  often, 
he  heard  from  it.  He  knows  nothing,  and  would 
care  less  than  nothing,  of  Mr.  Ingram's  introduc- 
tion to  Poetry,  but  has  much  to  tell  Sanchia  of  this 
work  of  his — of  his  failure  in  past  years  and  hopes 
for  future.  We  read  of  Androsace  lanuguinosa, 
Draba  aizotdes,  of  Lithospermum  prostratuni  (there's 
to  be  a  blue  sheet  of  that),  and  of  Ramondia  pyre- 
naica,  *'that  exquisite  rosette  of  dark  green  and 
mauve,  of  which  I  shall  never  have  enough.  Re- 
joice with  me.  Queen  of  Flowers  and  Faery.  I  have 
three — three! — self-sown  plants  of  it,  which  will 
flower  in  April.  I  must  be  here  to  see;  and  it  would 
be  well  that  you  were  here  also."  His  enthusiasm 
over  this  growing  passion  for  transforming  England 
by  means  of  flowers  goes  well  in  hand  with  his  social 
schemes.  He  had,  in  fact,  discovered  his  life-work. 
"England  a  garden!"  he  cried  out  in  a  letter  to 
Sanchia,  ''and  Englishmen  the  gardeners!     I'll  die 

for  that  war-shout.     Isn't  it  finer  than  your  All-red 

155 


156  OPEN  COUNTRY 

map,  Kipling,  Henley,  and  Co.?  Oh,  men,  throw 
down  your  big  drums  and  concertinas ;  forsake  your 
beanfeasts  and  city  dinners ;  take  up  your  spades  and 
follow  me!  What  is  your  bombast  about,  if  not  to 
make  this  panting  country  more  fat  and  less  able  to 
move;  its  workmen  richer  and  so  more  idle?  Pah, 
you  dullards,  what's  worth  having  beside  work?" 
He  turns  to  rend  the  opposite  camp.  "And  you, 
trades-unionists,  with  your  eight  hours'  day — do  you 
know  what  you  are  about?  You  are  slaying  man- 
hood, that's  what  you're  doing.  Every  hour  you 
get  docked  off  your  work-time  will  be  spent  gaping 
at  a  football  match,  or  goading  whippets  to  kill  wired- 
in  rabbits.  And  what's  the  worth  of  a  man  glutted 
with  dead  rabbits,  or  hoarse  with  ravings  at  the  Oval  ? 
If  he  played  his  football  I  might  have  less  to  say. 
But  he  don't.  He  pays  hirelings  to  do  it  for  him, 
and  eggs  them  on  by  bawling  and  cursing.  Agitate 
for  the  right  to  work  longer  hours,  you  blind  bats, 
you ;  agitate  for  leave  to  work  the  flesh  off  your  fin- 
gers if  you  choose.  Then  at  least  you'll  have  got 
freedom,  though  you  die  for  it.  Better  die  free,  and 
leave  free  men  to  follow  you,  than  watch  slaves  play 
your  games  for  you — hey?" 

He  gets  very  wild  over  all  this,  and  leads  his  young 
Sanchia  across  a  difficult  country — with  frequent 
apologies,  however.  ''Queen  Mab,  forgive  me,  do. 
I  take  you  trapesing  through  the  market-place  and 
soil  your  white  robe  in  public  mire.  Shame  upon 
me!  I  might  as  well  draw  you  into  a  gin-palace  and 
make  you  sit  scared  among  the  sodden  men  and  blue- 


SENHOUSE   ON   CIVILISATION  157 

nosed,  trembling  women  there  as  lead  you  to  ponder 
these  awful  things.  But  you  have  a  great  soul,  San- 
chia,  and  can  go  where  Beatrice  went,  I  hope." 

The  letter  which  I  print  now  is  the  outcome  of 
his  social  considerations.  She  must  have  asked 
him  to  account  for  mankind  at  large.  How,  for 
instance,  did  he  square  up  his  individualist  con- 
victions with  the  needs  of  a  complicated  society  ?  If 
his  was  the  only  sane  life,  how  was  a  populace  to  lead 
it?  He  must  have  given  some  time  to  the  answer, 
which  breaks  a  spell  of  silence.  It  is  more  carefully 
written,  less  incoherent,  less  rhapsodical  than  usual. 

Land's  End,  Early  March. 

That  was  a  wholesome  inquiry  of  yours,  O  Arte- 
mis of  the  Haven  {Xiiievln  "KprefiL,  says  the  Anthology, 
and  "to  whom,  O  blessed  one,  all  meshes  have  been 
given").  To  thee,  my  Blessed  One,  I  give  now  the 
rudderings  of  my  thought,  put  through  as  fine  a  mesh 
as  I  could  compass. 

It's  vastly  well,  upon  my  word,  that  I  should  live 
at  my  ease,  and  sleep  under  the  stars,  and  go  my 
ways,  owing  no  man  anything.  But  I  have  asked 
myself  pretty  often,  as  you  ask  me  now.  What  of  the 
other  thirty  million  poor  devils  who  moil  in  cities 
for  their  wives  and  offspring?  What  is  to  be  done 
with  them?  Can  they  not  be  helped  to  my  tub  and 
crust  and  cup  of  cold  water?  Pertinent  questions 
of  yours,  most  wise  and  holy  lady — to  which  here's 
a  sketchy  kind  of  an  answer.  They  demand  a 
pamphlet,  you  know;  but  I  spare  you  that. 


158  OPEN  COUNTRY 

When  you  come  to  talk  about  people  instead  of 
persons  you  are  brought  up  against  Society,  and  are 
reminded  of  the  fact,  so  conveniently  forgotten,  that 
men  have  got  now  to  be  gregarious.  I'm  afraid  that 
condition  is  of  too  long  standing  to  be  quarrelled 
with,  even  by  me;  but  I  don't  doubt  that  the  unit 
was  originally  the  family,  and  not  the  tribe.  I  sup- 
pose we  first  began  to  herd  and  huddle  to  protect  our 
naked  bodies  against  furry  beasts,  like  wolves,  and 
that  we  then  found  out  (having  scored  ofi;  the  wolves) 
that  a  state  of  defence  was  a  pretty  jumping-off 
ground  for  being  offensive.  I  should  like  to  know 
in  whose  bodies  reside  the  souls  of  the  first  palisadoed 
lot  who  raided  a  neighbour's  stake-fence.  In  this 
our  rascally  island,  I  misdoubt.  However,  here  we 
are,  a  society,  and  a  nation:  a  Great  Power,  Queen, 
Lords  and  Commons,  and  all  the  rest  of  it — a  vast 
and  piebald  congregation,  every  member  of  which, 
they  assure  me,  has  a  soul  to  be  saved  and  a  body  to 
be  washed. 

I  accept  that,  and  go  on  to  observe  that  these 
things  being  so — rebus  se  hahentibus  ut  nunc,  as  the 
Schoolman  puts  it — we  must  now  talk,  in  the  cur- 
rent slang,  about  Civilisation.  Civilisation  is  the 
hope  of  the  hour,  so  fixed  a  quantity  that  a  chap 
wrote  of  it  the  other  day  as  if  it  was  a  disease.  Civil- 
isation, its  Cause  and  Cure,  was  the  name  of  his 
treatise;  and  I  believe  he  was  perfectly  serious.  It 
used  to  mean,  in  Bentham's  day,  'Hhe  greatest  hap- 
piness of  the  greatest  number,"  which  was  modest 
of  Bentham.     I  think  we  have  now  screwed  it  up 


SENHOUSE   ON  CIVILISATION  159 

to  "greatest  happiness  of  everybody,"  which  is 
pleonastic,  because  happiness  is  good  enough  for 
anybody.  You  might  as  well  talk  of  the  ''greatest 
whiteness"  as  of  the  "greatest  happiness."  But 
sloppy  phrases  are  characteristic  of  an  age  of  news- 
papers. Anyhow,  what  the  newspapers  call  civilisa- 
tion, you  and  I  call  salvation. 

Are  we  civilised,  by  the  way?  Are  we  getting 
civilised?  Are  we  more  civilised  than  the  Greeks 
were  in  Socrates'  time  ?  Or  the  Romans  in  Cicero's  ? 
Or  the  Italians  in  Leonardo's?  Or  the  English  in 
Sir  T.  More's?  Are  we  more  humane,  you  might 
say?  We  are  told  so,  I  know;  but  between  you 
and  me  and  the  Atlantic,  I  doubt  it  profoundly. 
Individually,  we  certainly  are  not;  collectively,  not 
one  atom.  If  we  act  individually  like  maniacs,  as  I've 
been  telling  you  we  do,  we  act  in  the  mass  like  the 
hosts  of  Midian.  Until  war — to  name  but  one  pub- 
lic vice — is  spoken  of  in  the  terms  we  now  use  to 
reprobate  drunkenness,  or  gluttony,  or  the  drug- 
habit,  I  decline  to  recognise  that  we  are  civilised  at 
all.  But,  so  far  from  that,  we  devastate  the  heathen; 
we  exhaust  ourselves  in  armaments;  we  cause  the 
flower  of  our  youth  to  perish  for  all-red  maps;  we 
still  teach  diplomats  to  lie  and  politicians  to  cadge 
for  votes  like  the  street-boys  for  coppers;  we  thieve 
at  large,  brag  the  great  year  through,  bluster,  howl 
at  other  people  playing  games  for  us;  lift  pious 
hands  (to  a  heaven  we  don't  believe  in)  at  our  rival's 
enormities;  we  cant  and  vapour — out  upon  us!  and 
what  for?     For  two  things  only,  Sanchia;    for  two 


i6o  OPEN  COUNTRY 

things  which  are  fatal  to  real  civilisation — that  money 
may  be  easy  and  that  labour  may  be  saved.  If  you 
will  mention  to  me  one  public  act  of  the  last  fifty 
years  which  has  not  been  directed  to  the  acquisition 
of  money,  or  one  mechanical  invention  which  has 
not  aimed  at  the  saving  of  labour,  I'll  throw  up  the 
sponge  and  commence  stockbroker. 

Now,  money,  I  say,  is  the  one  cause  of  slavery, 
and  work  the  one  hope  of  salvation.  Therefore 
our  civilisation,  as  they  disastrously  term  it,  is  a 
condition  of  acquiring  slavery  easily,  and  of  obliter- 
ating the  hope  of  salvation.  Pretty,  isn't  it,  when 
you  take  the  clothes  off?  Happy  state  of  things! 
Noble  ideals,  shared  by  the  Great  Unionist  Party 
and  the  Great  Liberal  Party,  turn  and  turn  about. 
There'll  be  a  Great  Labour  Party  one  of  these  days, 
bickering  with  the  others  for  a  share  in  these  splendid 
endeavours.  It  really  might  seem  to  you  as  if  I 
was  joking;  but  I  write  with  tears  in  my  eyes — that 
these  things  should  be! 

I  don't  want  to  labour  my  argument,  but  I  must 
repeat  myself.  Civilisation  is  a  condition  of  freedom 
to  use  your  faculties  to  their  fullest  extent;  and 
your  faculties  are  every  power  of  mind  and  heart 
and  muscle  and  sense.  Very  well.  Now  I  say  that 
every  sovereign  you  put  into  a  man's  pocket  seduces 
him  away  from  the  use  of  his  faculties,  and  every 
machine  you  devise  directly  deprives  him  of  one  of 
them — and  then  where  are  we?  Why,  here;  that 
what  is  true  of  a  man  is  true  of  a  million  of  men,  and 
that,  so  far  from  being  more  civilised  than  the  Peri- 


SENHOUSE   ON  CIVILISATION  i6l 

clean  Athenians,  we  are  actually  less  so  than  the 
neolithic  dweller  on  the  South  Downs,  who  hacked 
up  the  earth  with  a  red  deer's  horn,  and  drove  his 
cattle  to  the  dew-pond  at  sundown,  and  back  again 
into  an  enclosure  banked  against  the  wolves.  And 
that's  very  odd,  because  with  art  and  poetry  behind 
us  and  before,  we  might  by  this  time  be  like  the  Sons 
of  God. 

I  won't  say  any  more  about  money,  lest  I  be  a 
bore.  I'll  take  Poverty  for  granted,  as  the  only 
hope  of  freedom  and  dignity,  and  have  a  shy  at 
machinery,  which  I  am  telling  you  decimates  our 
faculties.  First  we'll  have  a  simple  case.  Suppose 
that  I,  in  the  pursuit  of  my  art,  have  learned  how 
exquisitely  to  point  a  lead-pencil;  and  next  con- 
ceive of  some  ingenious  rascal  who  invents  a  ma- 
chine, and  sells  it  for  a  penny,  which  sharpens  them 
as  well  as  I  can.  What  happens?  I  am  tempted 
immediately  to  say,  ''Prodigal  that  I  am!  What 
hours  of  a  short  lifetime  have  I  not  wasted  over 
pencils!  What  grime  have  I  not  collected  in  my 
finger-nails!  Wliat  soap  not  consumed!"  Thus  I 
fall  into  the  pit  digged  for  me  by  that  ungodly  one, 
and  then  and  there  lose  the  mystery,  art,  and  craft 
of  pointing  pencils.  Thereby,  and  to  that  extent, 
I  have  crippled  my  faculties  of  eye  and  hand  and 
judgment;  thereby,  and  to  that  extent,  those  facul- 
ties atrophy.  Do  you  follow  me  ?  Am  I  not  right  ? 
Oh!  of  course  I  am.  Now  let's  take  a  high  flight: 
paulb  majora  canamus. 

Let's  aim  a  shaft  at  the  printing-press — that  semi- 


1 62  OPEN  COUNTRY 

divine  institution.  Before  the  devil  inspired  Guten- 
berg to  scheme  for  a  statue  in  Maintz,  Literature 
was  a  sacred  mystery,  a  kind  of  priesthood  to  which 
a  man  came  as  through  the  fire,  by  the  clean  grace 
of  God.  The  poet  or  historian  was  a  hierophant. 
If  poet,  he  sang  his  own  song;  if  historian,  spoke 
his  own  tale.  Literature,  then,  was  twin-sister  of 
Music,  addressed  the  soul  through  the  ear.  Words 
were  phrases,  letters  were  notes.  And  more  than 
that,  oh,  much  more  than  that!  The  hearers  of 
such  literature,  who  were  a  thousandfold  more  than 
the  readers  of  it,  had  to  get  it  by  rote.  *'By  heart" 
is  a  finer  phrase;  ah,  they  got  it  by  heart,  Sanchia, 
as  I  have  got  you.  That's  to  say,  they  were  filled 
with  it,  as  the  Apostles  with  the  Holy  Ghost;  they 
lived  on  it;  it  was  permanent  possession,  not  of  a 
great  thing  (oh,  no,  no!),  but  hy  a  great  thing.  The 
fellows  went  their  ways  carrying  a  divine  tenant, 
inspired  by  him,  driven  by  him  to  a  flight.  Imagine 
the  man  who  absorbed  the  Odyssey  by  these  means! 
Or  the  Purgatoriol  Or  got  *'by  heart"  the  great 
choruses  from  the  Agamemnon  or  the  (Edipus !  I 
can  picture  him  following  the  rhapsodist  from  deme 
to  deme,  or  working  it  afoot  from  Athens  to  Corinth 
to  get  more  of  ^schylus  into  his  head.  Is  there 
no  use  of  faculty  in  all  that?  Isn't  that  the  only 
way  of  enlarging  faculty,  to  sharpen  every  sense, 
exercise  every  fibre  ?  It's  so  obvious  that  it's  barely 
worth  while  to  ask  the  question. 

Now,   what  has  the  printing-press  done  to  ad- 
vance the  use  of  faculty?     To  begin  with,  it  has 


SENHOUSE   ON  CIVILISATION  163 

destroyed  memory :  a  very  useful  performance ! 
Next,  it  has  cheapened  poetry.  It  is  now  within  a 
man's  power  to  buy  Wordsworth  for  twopence — 
and  to  value  him  accordingly.  For  when  money 
is  your  standard  of  value,  a  colourless  diamond  is 
worth  more  than  a  sea-blue  sapphire,  and  a  ten- 
guinea  Encyclopaedia  than  Poesy  out  of  a  two-penny 
box.  That  also  is  doing  Literature  a  friendly  turn, 
I  suppose.  Next,  it  has  destroyed  the  charming 
art  of  caligraphy — very  kindly.  It  has  given  us 
rotten  paper  instead  of  fine  parchment,  so  that  the 
things  which  we  read  and  don't  remember  may 
reasonably  perish.  It  has  turned  Literature  into  a 
kind  of  pictorial  art  instead  of  a  musical ;  for  to  one 
man  whose  poetry  is  addressed  to  the  ear  there  are 
now  a  thousand  (from  Keats  to  Browning,  and  on 
and  on)  who  endeavour  to  hit  you  with  it  in  the 
eye.  That's  how  we  get  ''scarlet  pains"  and  "pur- 
ple noons"  into  poetry;  and 

Perturb 
With  drip  acerb, 

and  other  flowers  of  speech.  You  don't  get  such 
freaks  in  Homer  or  Dante;  and  Shakespeare,  thank 
God,  lived  too  near  the  great  free  days  to  consider 
readers  before  hearers.  Besides,  the  playhouse 
can  never  be  infected  with  Gutenberg's  poison. 
Well,  then,  lastly,  the  printing-press  has  made  the 
newspaper  possible;  and  if  it  had  never  done  any- 
thing else  it  should  have  earned  everlasting  infamy 
for  Gutenberg.     These   things  that   shameless  ma- 


i64  OPEN  COUNTRY 

chine  of  his  has  done,  and  not  left  a  number  of  things 
undone,  which  it  would  be  tedious  to  mention. 
Enough  of  it,  and  its  brothers  in  iniquity,  the  rail- 
way and  the  steam-plough  and  the  automaton  chess- 
player. 

Now  let  us  get  on  a  bit.  Imagine  England  as 
a  nation  solving  its  problems  as  I  solved  my  own, 
dropping  everything,  walking  to  freedom  via  King's 
Lynn.     How  is  that  to  be? 

Well,  you  know,  I  feel  pretty  hopeful  that  some- 
thing of  the  kind  will  come  to  pass.  It  won't  be  in 
your  time  or  mine.  You  will  be  a  saint  and  I  a 
comic  reminiscence  long,  long  before.  But  it's 
amusing  to  work  it  out;  and  there's  this  about  it — 
that  within  quite  a  short  space,  at  any  moment,  a 
handful  of  the  Elect  may — walk  to  King's  Lynn. 
The  rest  will  wait — and  they  must.  There's  Social- 
ism in  their  way:  a  powerful  enemy  to  civilisation, 
because  it  accepts  the  money  standard  and  is  sworn 
ally  of  machinery. 

We  are  in  for  a  spell  of  Socialism.  I  see  that 
clearly.  It  is  coming  quite  fast.  Two  more  gen- 
eral elections  and  the  Socialists  will  be  a  great  party. 

It's  so  confoundedly  plausible,  you  -see.  It  ac- 
cepts such  a  lot  of  scurvy  institutions  as  fixtures — 
which  really  aren't  fixtures  at  all.  It's  like  a  new 
tenant  coming  into  a  house,  saying  to  the  old  one, 
"Oh,  don't  trouble  to  move  that  gas-stove,  pray. 
I  can  use  it  as  a  dressing-table."  It  has  collared 
the  trades  unions  at  the  start  by  the  prospects  of 
easy  money  and  light  work  (why  not  say  at  once, 


SENHOUSE   ON  CIVILISATION  165 

Easy  drugs  and  cheap  death-beds?).  It  will  come 
on  by  way  of  corporations,  which  will  absorb  private 
enterprise;  and  the  State,  which  will  absorb  the 
corporations.  Water,  gas,  old  Charnock's  beer, 
my  father's  colliery,  milk,  trains,  telegraphs,  and 
so  on.  The  State  will  come  to  be  the  Whiteley  of 
England,  the  heads  of  Departments  the  shopwalkers. 
We  shall  be  forced  by  Act  of  Parliament  to  deal  there. 
From  that  to  dispensing  men's  incomes,  arranging 
their  marriages,  allotting  the  number  of  their  fam- 
ily— these  are  easy  steps.     One  sees  all  that. 

This  will  be  the  most  ghastly  tyranny  the  world 
has  ever  seen,  for  it  will  mean  government  by  ex- 
perts in  the  art  of  governing;  government  by  theo- 
rists who  have  left  human  nature  out  of  the  reckon- 
ing. It  will  be  awful — but  I  am  sure  it  must  be 
faced,  and  believe  that  it  will  be  tonic. 

Tonic  for  this  reason,  that  there  will  be  a  revolt, 
since  man  is  happily  a  choleric  animal,  and  a  ''pan- 
thier  when  rouged."  The  old  Adam  will  come 
out  of  his  new  model-dwelling  and  wallow  in  the 
gore  of  his  brother  man.  Dismembered  Fabians 
will  make  miry  the  London  streets;  the  President 
of  the  Local  Government  Board  and  Chairman  of 
the  London  County  Council  will  ride,  roped  to- 
gether, in  a  tumbril  to  the  Guillotine  in  Hyde  Park 
— and  all  will  be  well. 

Then  Anarchy,  I  hope;  then  Poverty,  Temper- 
ance, and  Sincerity :  redeimt  Saturnia  regna.  There's 
my  Cumaean  prophecy.  Time  enough,  however,  to 
work  out  that  little  programme.    We  may  safely 


1 66  OPEN  COUNTRY 

leave  it  to  our  great-great-grandchildren.  But  to 
that,  I  do  trust  and  believe,  we  shall  one  day  re- 
turn— to  the  Golden  Age  once  more.  But  it  doesn't 
seem  to  me  possible  that  we  can  ever  drink  Liberty 
at  ease  until  we  have  gnawed  the  bitter  crusts  of 
Tyranny.  Socialism  will  give  us  those  and  to  spare: 
we  shall  never  know  the  meaning  of  Freedom  until 
we've  had  it. 

That's  to  say  —  after  Congregationalism,  which 
sees  the  world  as  a  society  where  everybody  is  rich, 
and  as  idle  as  possible,  we  shall  be  ripe,  I  believe, 
for  Segregationalism,  which  desires  that  everybody 
shall  be  poor,  and  earn  his  right  to  poverty.  The 
indispensable  things  to  be  learned,  the  absolute 
conditions  of  any  such  return  are  in  these  axiomata: 

(a)  The  End  of  Life  is  the  full  use  of  our  powers. 

(b)  The  use  of  Government  is  the  securing  of  that 
for  every  one. 

(c)  Education  is  the  fitting  of  our  children  to 
have  it. 

Once  you  get  these  things  recognised  as  funda- 
mental definitions,  the  rest  follows  orderly. 

The  world  will  be  extraordinarily  simple  then. 
Geography  will  no  longer  be  divided  into  physical 
and  political.  There  won't  be  any  politics,  because 
there  won't  be  any  WXi? — neither  domestic  (so 
called),  because  the  Family  will  be  the  unit,  and 
not  the  Nation,  nor  foreign,  because  there  won't  be 
any  foreigners.  Wars  will  cease,  because  there  will 
be  none  with  whom  to  war;  strikes  between  Capital 


SENHOUSE   ON  CIVILISATION  167 

and  Labour,  because  the  only  Capital  will  he  Labour. 
The  strife  will  be,  rather,  to  be,  if  possible,  poorer 
than  your  neighbour.  With  nothing  to  tax,  there 
can  be  no  taxes;  with  no  machinery,  nobody  can 
be  out  of  work.  Such  terms  as  Peace,  Progress, 
and  Prosperity  will  resume  their  meanings:  Peace 
will  again  mean  peace  of  mind  (since  bodily  peace 
will  be  a  condition  of  life  itself),  Progress  the  ad- 
vance of  human  faculty.  Prosperity  the  security  of 
the  two  first.     All  this  is  self-evident. 

Religion,  morals  may  be  left  to  themselves,  when 
the  family  is  the  unit.  Tribal  religion  becomes 
an  absurdity  when  the  tribe  disappears;  personal 
religion  is  all  that  counts — and  we've  talked  about 
that.  So  with  morals.  Dante  and  the  Schoolmen, 
who  knew  their  long  Italy  broken  up  into  ten  score 
of  fenced  nations,  had  to  deal  with  morality  public 
and  private;  and  the  poor  poet  must  needs  fence 
off  compartments  in  hell  to  accommodate  public 
or  private  sinners.  Thus,  Thou  shalt  not  steal,  was 
a  sin  if  you  robbed  Vittorio ;  but  if  you  robbed  your- 
self it  might  be  a  virtue.  We  shan't  say  that  in 
Saturn's  realm.  To  us  insincerity  will  be  the  deadly 
sin :  the  sins  of  to.-day  will  be  ignorances  to-morrow. 

But  you  tell  me  that  there  must  always  be  society 
where  there  are  men,  women,  and  children,  since 
the  children  will  grow  up  and  fall  in  love,  and  the 
men  and  women  will  have  been  in  love  already,  and 
be  very  capable  of  being  so  again.  Family  will  stray 
into  family,  you  think — and  of  course  it  will.  There'll 
be  Love  to  regulate ;  and  that  is  the  one  affair  of  our 


1 68  OPEN  COUNTRY 

lives  (so  far  as  I  can  see)  which  won't  fall  in  line  be- 
hind the  fundamentals.  Love  is  (with  great  respect 
to  divines,  monks,  doctors,  and  other  bigwigs)  the 
one  real,  abiding,  sincere  business  of  our  lives;  the 
root  of  Art,  the  principle  of  Poetry;  the  single  human 
passion  which  has  the  least  chance  of  interfering 
with  money-making  or  idleness.  It  used  to  be  said 
that  Religion  and  Ambition  were  passions  of  equal 
force,  but  that  no  longer  holds.  Religion  (as  it  was 
then  meant)  has  nearly  gone,  Ambition  has  already 
gone,  the  way  of  all  flesh.  But  Love  endures,  and 
with  it  the  world  still  labours  towards  happiness; 
and  Marriage  (which  is  what  it  means)  has  got  to 
be  faced. 

But  not  by  me,  my  dear,  writing  to  you.  I  don't 
think  I  can  tell  you  what  I  think  about  that  just  yet. 
I  don't  know  that  I  can  tell  you  at  all — or  ever.  If 
I  find  that  I  can,  of  course  I  will;  or  if  I  find  that  I 
must.  It  seems  to  me  that  what  my  heart  is  full  of 
must  by  all  means  be  poured  into  your  lap,  to  receive 
the  benediction  of  your  hands.  I  have  to  talk  to 
you,  Sanchia,  or  die. 

Oh,  how  are  you  going  to  read  all  this?  And 
how  I  should  love  to  see  you  at  it — your  pondering, 
sea- blue  eyes,  your  wise,  considering,  doubtful  smile! 
Shall  I  ever  again  see  you  at  anything  with  my  bodily 
eyes?  Perhaps  not — and  Amen,  anyhow.  I  live 
upon  what  I  can  remember  of  you,  and  grow  by 
what  I  hope  to  remember.  Good-bye,  good-bye, 
Sanchia.    The  day  is  drawing  in.    I  must  light  a  fire. 


SENHOUSE   ON  CIVILISATION  169 

It  has  just  struck  one.  Perhaps  I'm  quite  wrong 
in  all  this.  Perhaps  I  ought  to  join  a  trades  union 
and  agitate  for  a  two  hours'  day.  Or  perhaps  I 
ought  to  be  a  Liberal  member  of  Parliament  and 
have  a  country-house.  Or  would  you  say,  an  Im- 
perialist, working  for  an  all-red  map  of  Africa  and 
a  Cape-to-Cairo  railway?  Perhaps  the  end  of  all 
Englishmen  should  be  the  preservation  intact  of 
this  great  Empire,  on  which  the  sun  never  sets — or 
never  rises.  Which  is  it?  If  so,  be  so  good  as  to 
tell  me  by  return  of  post,  and  I  withdraw  all  that 
I  have  ever  written  to  you. 

Her  answer  to  this  was  short  and  timid.  He  had 
opened  her  eyes  perhaps  too  wide.  And  yet  she 
must  have  them  open  soon.  If  he  was  not  to  talk 
to  her  of  marriage,  for  instance!  Was  it  not  cer- 
tain that  somebody  else  would?  It  was  practically 
certain.  Therefore  he  must  tell  her  what  he  thought 
of  that.  She  more  than  hinted  at  it;  she  almost 
said  it  when  she  wrote,  "I  wish  I  could  talk  to  you — 
though  I  don't  know  how  to  do  it.  But  you  always 
understand  me,  even  if  I  say  nothing.  There  are 
all  sorts  of  difficulties  about  one  as  one  grows  up. 
I  do  want  to  know  what  you  really  think  about  some 
of  them."  And  then  she  adds,  '*  I  am  to  be  presented 
next  week.  Rather  foolish,  but  mamma  insists. 
And  then  I  am  'out'!  It's  getting  like  Spring  now. 
I  should  like  to  be  'out'  in  quite  another  sense." 


CHAPTER  XV 

SANCHIA  KISSES  HANDS — AND  IS  HANDLED 
BY  THE  WORLD 

It  is  true  that  Sanchia  went  to  Court,  and  made 
her  curtsey  to  the  Queen;  for  after  the  turn  of  the 
year  changes  had  taken  place  in  the  Percival  house- 
hold. Hawise,  Lady  Pinwell,  being  out  of  the  way, 
either  in  Pinwell  or  in  Halkin  Street  as  the  case  may 
have  required,  her  sister  Melusine  became  engaged 
to  a  Mr.  Gerald  Scales,  who  was  brother  to  a  baronet, 
though,  most  unfortunately,  not  in  any  likelihood 
of  ** coming  by  his  own,"  as  Mrs.  Percival  put  it. 
There  were  many  children  born  to  Sir  Timothy 
Scales,  of  whom  three  were  sons.  But  still  it  was 
very  well.  Gerald — ''our  dear  Gerald — the  soul 
of  chivalry,"  was  a  prosperous  gentleman,  and  pros- 
perous without  efforts  of  his  own;  which  is  such  a 
hall-mark,  which  stamps  you  at  once.  Melusine 
was  fortunate — but  with  such  a  figure,  with  such 
grace,  who  could  wonder?  "Dearest  mamma," 
the  fair  girl  said,  as  she  leaned  her  cheek  to  be  kissed 
or  patted,  ''how  sweet  you  are  to  me.  Between  you 
and  Gerald  I  shall  be  spoilt."  But  Vicky  said  that 
between  mamma  and  Melusine  and  Gerald  she 
felt  old-fashioned;    so  she  cast  her  eyes  about  her 

and  did  calculations  in  her  pretty  head.     Mr.  Pon- 

170 


SANCHIA  KISSES  HANDS  171' 

sonby  Thome  was  much  too  old,  of  course;  before 
he  could  look  at  the  menu  he  had  to  get  out  his  pince- 
nez,  and  then  to  wipe  them,  and  then  to  have  fearful 
struggles  with  the  chain.  Besides,  do  you  look  at 
the  menu  at  all  unless  you're  really  old  ?  On  the  other 
hand,  Mr.  Phipps — Mr.  Frederick  Apsley  Phipps — 
was  too  young.  He  got  glossy  about  the  eyes  when 
he  shook  hands,  and  never  knew  whether  you  were 
going  to  shake  hands  with  him  or  not,  which  was 
such  a  bore.  And  even  if  you  put  a  hyphen  in  and 
called  yourself  Apsley-Phipps  (which  lots  of  people 
did,  and  there  was  nothing  in  it) — even  then  Phipps 
sounded  like  a  pigeon  with  a  cold.  Phipps,  Phipps! 
You  could  hear  the  poor  bird  wheezing  it.  Oh,  no, 
he  wouldn't  do.  Besides,  Frederick  was  the  name 
for  a  fair-haired  man,  as  everybody  knew — blue  eyes 
and  fair  hair — no,  not  red  hair  like  Mr.  Ingram's, 
Sancie's  friend.  Now  Mr.  Frederick  Phipps  was 
very  dark,  and  pale.  On  the  whole  she  inclined  to 
Captain  Sinclair,  who  had  two  beautiful  names — 
Cuthbert  and  Sinclair.  And  that  was  all.  Vicky  said 
that  you  must  either  have  one  Christian  name,  or 
three.     Two  was  vulgar. 

All  these  things  being  so,  it  was  considered  time 
for  Sanchia  to  take  her  place  in  society,  and  she 
was  duly  presented  at  the  end  of  March.  She  took 
it  with  philosophy,  was  neither  elated  nor  depressed ; 
but  I  beg  leave  (with  all  respect  to  Mr.  Senhouse's 
feelings)  to  say  that  she  contemplated  herself  more 
than  once  in  the  dressmaker's  cheval-glass,  and 
more  than  once  or  twice  in  her  father's  fond  eyes 


172  OPEN  COUNTRY 

with  a  good  deal  of  quiet  satisfaction.  Vicky's 
outspoken,  "Why,  my  dear,  you  could  go — per- 
fectly well — without  any  stays  at  all,"  is  the  sort  of 
thing  any  girl  will  thrill  to  believe.  And  from  Vicky, 
too,  whose  figure  was  beyond  reproach!  Her  hair 
looked  lovely,  simply  lovely,  Vicky  told  her;  and 
the  feathers  gave  her  height,  which  she  may  have 
wanted.  Vicky  thought  she  did.  "You're  fright- 
fully severe,  you  know,  frightfully  chaste  and  all  that 
sort  of  thing;  but  an  inch  or  two  makes  all  the  differ- 
ence in  the  world."  Sanchia  laughed  at  her,  but 
I  think  she  liked  it. 

She  sent  Senhouse  her  photograph,  which  showed 
her  stiff  in  her  glories  of  plumes  and  satin.  He  ac- 
knowledged it  with  pleasant  irony.  "My  frozen 
lady,"  he  called  her;  "my  saint  in  a  feretory";  and 
Nuestra  SeTiora  del  Paso,  Our  Lady  of  the  Proces- 
sion. "I  wonder  very  much  at  this  moment,"  he 
says,  "about  the  Brauronion  in  Athens.  That  was 
a  great  day,  you  know,  for  Artemis  the  Bright. 
There  were  processions  of  unwedded  girls  in  crocus- 
coloured  tunics;  the  tallest  of  them  carried  Artemis 
herself,  Artemis  of  Brauron;  all  the  others — what 
do  you  think?  Little  bears.  Why  little  bears?. 
Why,  in  the  name  of  Glory,  little  bears?  I  can 
answer  that.  Don't  you  know  about  Callisto,  who 
is  now  the  Great  Bear  in  the  sky?  Some  day  I'll 
tell  you.  She  had  a  lot  to  do  with  it.  But  what 
led  me  on  to  this  was  the  consideration  whether  they 
decked  the  Goddess  for  the  procession  in  feathers 
and  fal-lals  and  made  her  look  as  stiff  and  startled 


SANCHIA   KISSES  HANDS  173 

at  once  as  you  look  here.  Your  eyes,  my  dear  one, 
are  quite  round — like  the  O  of  Giotto.  You  look 
as  if  you  hadn't  winked  them  for  an  hour.  When 
they  fixed  in  the  final  feather  and  turned  you  to  the 
looking-glass,  you  said  'Oh!'  and  at  that  moment 
the  frost  came  down  and  stuck  you  at  Oh!  for  ever. 
It's  charming,  as  the  showman  said,  but  it's  not 
Emily.  .  .  .  All  the  same,  I  wish  I  had  been  in  the 
Mall  among  the  loafers  to  see  you  sedate  beside 
mamma,  your  plumed  head  nodding  at  the  window; 
all  the  crowd  jostling  to  behold  you,  nudging  each 
other  and  saying,  'There's  a  little  beauty.'  Shrewd 
judges  those  crowds  of  the  Mall,  I  fancy.  They 
have  a  great  deal  of  stored  experience,  you  see,  being 
descendants  of  the  fellows  who  saw  your  great- 
grandmother  go  up  to  kiss  the  hand  of  Queen  Char- 
lotte or  Queen  Adelaide,  as  the  case  may  have  been." 
He  receives  her  accounts  of  subsequent  gaieties 
with  relish — not  a  trace  of  grudging  in  any  of  his 
letters;  he  was  quite  without  the  sense  of  property 
in  any  person  or  thing.  He  asks  after  her  ''swains," 
as  he  calls  them — her  "young  Mr.  Dartrey,"  or  her 
"martial  Ingram,"  or  a  musical  acquaintance,  a 
M.  Sergius  Polschkin.  With  this  gentleman,  who 
swims  vigorously  for  a  while  in  the  correspondence, 
he  makes  great  play.  He  dubs  him  variously 
Apollo,  Apolloschkin,  Apollo's  kin,  Apollo's  skin, 
and,  by  a  sequence  of  ideas,  Marsyas.  He  sends 
him  Russian  greetings,  affects  to  believe  him  a  spy 
of  the  autocracy  come  to  entice  him  back  to  Siberia. 
"Assure  him  that  he  shall  have  me,"  he  bids  her, 


174  OPEN  COUNTRY 

"on  condition  that  he  puts  me  south  of  Lake  Balkash. 
That's  where  I  want  to  look  for  irises.  It  will  be 
handy,  too,  between  you  and  me,  for  Turkestan 
— and  Thibet,  whither  I  shall  certainly  escape  when 
I've  collected  my  roots.  I  have  long  wanted  to 
cross  Thibet  and  see  the  Himalayas.  But  don't  tell 
Marsyas  this,  there's  a  dear."  He's  a  lover;  it's 
obvious  in  every  word;  but  he's  a  very  gallant  and 
loyal  lover. 

Undoubtedly  the  time  had  come  when  Sanchia 
swung  into  ken,  and  began  to  have  her  satellites, 
revolving  and  fixed.  I  wish  I  could  record  them  all 
— there's  humour  to  be  got  out  of  them — but  it's 
impossible.  M.  Polschkin,  for  instance,  has  been 
described  as  swimming  vigorously.  He  did  more 
than  that;  he  splashed,  and  became  rather  a  bore. 
This  young  Russian,  his  emotions  very  near  the 
surface,  emptied  himself  without  disguise  in  froth 
at  her  feet.  Vicky,  you  remember,  called  him 
Fluffy,  detecting  his  frothiness;  but  it  was  all  very 
serious  to  him.  He  wanted  Sanchia  badly,  and  cared 
not  who  knew  it.  In  consequence,  everybody  knew 
it.  Vicky  said  it  was  really  almost  indecent  to  hear 
him  at  the  piano  sing  "/c/j  Hebe  dichl^^  in  dreamy, 
sighing  half-tones,  with  glimmering  eyes  which  did 
not  disdain  the  aid  of  tears.  He  would  afterwards 
stand  fainting  by  the  door  and  speak  to  anybody 
about  Sanchia.  And  as  he  spoke  of  her  and  his 
desire  he  wept  freely.  At  times  he  almost  raved; 
at  times  he  scowled  at  her  with  folded  arms.    Nevile 


SANCHIA  KISSES  HANDS  175 

Ingram  once  called  him  a  damned  fool,  and  he  was 
pleased,  and  struck  his  breast,  and  said  fiercely, 
**Yes,  you  are  quite  right — you,  with  your  English 
'anmiersledge.  I  am  a  dam  fool — I  am  a  love- 
foolish,  love-bedrunken  man — what  you  call  'alf- 
seas."  ''That's  what  we  call  it,"  Ingram  had  re- 
plied cheerfully,  "and  I  advise  you  to  keep  your 
hair  on."  Whereat  M.  Polschkin  had  gripped  his 
locks  with  both  hands  and  howled  like  a  wolf  at 
sundown. 

She  bore  it — her  first  affair  of  the  kind,  remem- 
ber, however  absurd — exemplarily,  as  if  it  were  a 
specimen  of  the  common  lot  of  women;  she  bore 
it  to  the  extent  even  of  not  seeming  to  be  aware. of  the 
ridiculous  figure  he  made  of  her  with  his  everlasting 
postures.  If  you  have  ever  seen  one  of  those  boxes 
of  puppets  worked  by  sand,  where  a  maiden  in  Swiss 
costume  stands  with  faintly  twitching  feet  confronted 
by  a  shepherd  in  knee-breeches  jerking  madly,  you 
will  have  some  idea  of  the  state  of  the  case.  No 
cardboard  girl  of  the  Grisons  twitched  more  delicately 
than  she;  but  there  is  this  significant  fact  to  be 
noted:  she  dropped  M.  Polschkin  out  of  her  letters 
to  Senhouse,  and  he  found  his  jokes  about  Marsyas 
and  Lake  Balkash  unechoed.  She  was,  in  fact,  very 
sick  at  heart  over  this  silly  business,  and  glad  enough 
to  dismiss  it  from  her  memory. 

Ingram's  suit — if  it  was  a  suit — was  far  more 
serious.  He  worked  with  infinite  discretion,  ad- 
mirable patience:  to  Chevenix  it  was  most  serious. 
"I   can   understand   flirtations — most   of   'em,"    he 


176  OPEN  COUNTRY 

said,  ''and  I  tumble  to  spoons  like  a  partridge  to 
number  fives,  but  this  sort  of  thing  beats  the  cocks." 
He  alluded  to  lectures  at  the  Royal  Institution — 
real  lectures  there,  not  of  the  sort  he  chose  for  Vicky 
— and  by  them  who  would  extend  University  teaching 
to  South  Kensington;  he  alluded  to  visits  to  the 
British  Museum,  and  to  the  spectacle  of  Ingram 
immaculately  dressed,  carrying  camp-stool  and  paint- 
ing materials  across  the  park  in  the  early  mornings. 
And  once  he  found  the  pair  in  a  hansom  on  the 
Embankment,  ''moored  up  against  the  kerb,"  he 
cried  aghast,  "like  a  bargee  on  Chelsea  Beach," 
painting  mud  and  sea-gulls  against  a  blood-red 
West.  His  conclusion  was  that  old  Nevilehad  "got 
it  bad,"  and  that  the  thing  must  be  stopped.  The 
worst  of  it  was  that  Ingram  was  changed,  and  very 
short  with  his  friend.  Invited  by  Chevenix  to  "have 
it  out"  at  the  Coffee-Tree,  he  gruffly  declined. 
"Look  here,  William,  my  son,"  he  had  replied,  "I 
know  what  I'm  doing,  and  ain't  such  a  cad  as  you 
think  me.     You  may  leave  me  alone,  if  you  please." 

Chevenix  was  very  grave.  "If  any  harm  comes 
out  of  this,  Nevile,"  he  said,  "I'll  never  forgive 
myself;  but  I  shall  lick  you  first." 

Ingram  levelled  his  eyes.  "You  shall,"  he  said. 
"You  have  my  leave." 

Thereafter  followed  public  demonstrations  and 
private  dances,  Hurlingham,  Private  Views,  and 
what  not,  visible  to  the  naked  eye,  and  evening 
communion  in  the  schoolroom  of  Great  Cumber- 
land Place,  when  the  lamp  was  lighted  and  the  books 


SANCHIA   KISSES  HANDS  177 

were  got  out,  and  the  crowned  young  head  and  the 
sleek  cropped  head  were  bent  together  over  the 
Vita  Nuova,  and  sometimes  hands  touched  between 
the  pages  of  the  dictionary,  and  sometimes  hand 
folded  over  hand  and  stayed  so.  These  phenom- 
ena were,  as  Chevenix  ruefully  admitted  to  him- 
self, "invisible  at  Greenwich";  and  the  sometime 
cheerful  youth  was  stricken  with  remorse.  "I 
can't  keep  it  up;  I  can't,  I  can't,"  he  told  himself. 
"Sancie's  a  darling — and  I  can't."  He  bore  it,  how- 
ever, for  another  few  weeks. 

Vicky  Percival,  who  loved  and  admired  her 
younger  sister  more,  much  more,  than  she  would 
have  admitted,  watched  during  these  spring  months, 
with  the  appreciative  eyes  of  Twenty-two,  the  do- 
ings of  Twenty.  Appreciative  yet  careful  eyes,  for 
as  she  said,  "You  never  know — never. ^^  The  rise 
and  dissolution  in  spume  of  poor  M.  Polschkin  had 
her  entire  approval;  she  confessed  that  Sancie's 
handling  of  the  youth  had  been  masterly.  "I 
couldn't  have  done  it  better  myself,  mamma,"  she 
said.  "It's  one  of  the  most  difficult  things  in  the 
world  to  let  a  man  make  a  perfect  fool  of  himself, 
and  pretend  you  don't  care.  Because,  of  course, 
you  do  care — awfully." 

"Sanchia,"  said  Mrs.  Percival,  "has  had  the 
education  of  a  gentlewoman.  At  least,  I  take  leave 
to  hope  so.     Fraulein  is  to  be  trusted." 

"I  do  wish  you  wouldn't  call  Sancie  names, 
mamma,"  said  Vicky.  "You  know — perfectly  well 
— that  we're  only  called  gentlewomen  when  we're 


178  OPEN  COUNTRY 

decayed.  There's  an  institution  for  them  where 
they  sell  comforters.  Fraulein's  a  gentlewoman  now 
— if  you  like.  Decayed — my  word!  But  Sanciel 
Really,  you  know,  mamma,  you're  too  hard  on 
Sancie  sometimes.     You  don't  like  her,  and " 

Mrs.  Percival's  eyes  were  now  shut.  "Can  a 
woman's  tender  care — ?"  she  had  begun;  but 
Vicky  would  have  none  of  that. 

"If  it  hasnH  ceased,  then,"  she  said  with  vehe- 
mence, "I  wish  you'd  look  after  Mr.  Ingram.  I 
loathe  him." 

Mrs.  Percival  opened  her  eyes.  "Mr.  Ingram?" 
She  was  surprised.  "You  dislike  Mr.  Ingram? 
He  is  one  of  the  most  earnest-minded  young  men 
I  know.  He  is  full  of  tact,  most  anxious  to  improve 
himself.  I  understand  that  Wanless  is  exquisite. 
The  gardens  are  a  show  place." 

* '  The  gardens,  mamma ! ' '  cried  Vicky.  * '  I  thought 
we  were  talking  about  Sancie.  You  don't  want  her 
to  be  a  show  place,  do  you?" 

Mrs.  Percival  could  stand  a  good  deal  from  a 
bold  enemy,  but  now  she  was  at  bay.  "I  think 
you  forget  yourself,  my  dear  child,"  she  said  in  a 
very  lofty  manner.  "If  you  have  anything  to  tell 
me,  which  is  not  mere  abuse  of  your  mother  and 
your  mother's  friends,  I  will  listen  to  it.  So  far 
you  have  been  flippant — and  unamusing.  I  must 
ask  you  to  let  me  get  on  with  my  letters.  I  have 
a  heavy  morning  before  me." 

"Very  well,  mamma,"  said  Vicky,  who  must 
have  the  last  word.     "I'll  go.     I  fancy  you  may 


SANCHIA  KISSES  HANDS  179 

have  a  heavier  morning  one  of  these  days,  but  how- 


ever  " 


It  was  difficult  to  talk  to  Sancie  about  her  affairs, 
because  the  child  was  so  simple  about  them,  and 
had  such  powers  of  silence.  "Like  him?  Of 
course  I  do,"  she  used  to  say.  ''  I  like  him  very  much. 
And  I  don't  understand  you.  What  should  he  mean  ?  " 

"Well,"  Vicky  cried,  "you  don't  suppose  he 
reads  Dante  with  you  because  he  wants  to  know 
what  it's  all  about!" 

Sanchia,  grave-eyed,  said,  "I  certainly  do  suppose 
it.  That's  why  everybody  reads  Dante,  I  expect." 
And  then  Vicky  appealed  to  Heaven  and  Earth. 
"But  nobody  reads  Dante,  my  darling  child!  No- 
body in  the  world  but  you!    Absurd!" 

"But  Mr.  Ingram  reads  it,"  Sanchia  said  with 
arched  brows.  Really,  Sancie  was  impossible.  She 
was  exactly  like  mamma — in  her  way,  of  course; 
she  saw  what  she  chose  to  see. 

The  Easter  holidays  came  and  went,  and  now  we 
were  in  May,  and  the  season  was  upon  us.  The 
John  Chevenixes  gave  an  evening  party  in  Chester- 
field Gardens,  which  was  the  greatest  success. 
Vicky  knew  that  she  was  "all  right,"  because  Cap- 
tain Sinclair  said  so — and  looked  it;  and  as  for 
Sancie,  she  was  a  tea-rose.  Vicky,  of  course,  had 
her  hands  full ;  what  with  Apsley  Phipps,  who  was 
"no  good,"  but  refused  to  see  it,  and  Captain  Sin- 
clair, and  a  friend  of  his,  a  Major  Scott,  her  hands 


i8o  OPEN   COUNTRY 

were  very  full,  but  yet  she  had  eyes  everywhere,  and 
saw  every  dance  that  Sancie  danced,  and  every  dance 
that  she  didn't,  too.  She  herself  only  sat  out  one 
— so  stern  was  the  sense  of  duty  upon  her — and  that 
one  was  with  Bill  Chevenix,  who  didn't  count.  A 
momentous  sitting-out  it  proved  to  be.  More  of  it 
in  its  place. 

Sanchia  was  also  sitting  out — with  Ingram.  She 
was  sitting  in  the  conservatory  under  a  palm.  There 
had  been  a  Chinese  lantern  swinging  under  the 
branches,  but  Ingram,  on  a  previous  visit,  had  put 
it  out.  ^'I  hate  those  things,  don't  you?"  he  had 
said,  and  taken  no  more  notice  of  it. 

She  was  sitting  very  quietly,  with  an  elbow  on 
the  arm  of  her  chair;  she  was  nursing  her  cheek. 
Her  free  hand  was  in  her  lap,  and  the  fan  was  swing- 
ing in  it,  up  and  down.  Ingram  sat  by  her,  elbows 
to  knees,  and  spoke  in  a  hard,  constrained  voice. 

"Whether  I  go  or  stay,  I'm  a  better  man  for  hav- 
ing known  you.  I've  got  a  chance.  I've  thought 
more,  felt  more,  learned  more  than  I  ever  thought 
possible.  I  don't  know  what  it  is  about  you — a  high 
head,  a  high  heart,  clear  eyes — I  don't  understand 
it  at  all.  Where  you  get  it — how  you  come  to  be — 
right  down  out  of  Heaven,  it  seems  to  me — but  there 
it  is — so  much  to  the  good.  I  take  things  as  I  find 
'cm  pretty  much;  I'm  like  that,  always  was.  I 
don't  inquire,  as  a  rule.  But  this  is  a  wonderful 
thing;  I  tell  you  fairly,  I  don't  understand  it.  You 
seem  to  light  things  up — from  inside — somehow. 
Poetry  now!     Poetry!    We  used  to  do  literature  at 


SANCHIA   KISSES  HANDS  i8i 

school.  Used  to  get  turned  on  to  Lycidas,  and — 
let's  get  it  right — Ode  on  Intimations  of  Immortality 
derived  from — no,  no,  I  can't  do  it  even  now.  What 
a  title  for  a  poem,  eh  ?  No,  but  what  I  mean  is  this. 
You  illuminate  these  things  for  me — they  glow;  I 
can  see  inside.  And  they're  splendid — they  really 
are  splendid.  I  could  go  on  for  hours  and  hours. 
I  go  home  after  those  readings,  you  know,  feeling 
as  if  I  had  wings — sort  of  wings."  He  looked  at  her, 
sitting  there  so  still,  so  merged  in  wonder;  he  touched 
her  hand.  ''You've  done  this  for  me,"  he  said, 
"and  I'm  much  obliged  to  you.  You  don't  know 
what  you've  done,  of  course.  I  don't  think  I  can 
tell  you.  But  I  will  tell  you  this.  If  I  leave  this 
place,  as  I  think  I  shall  in  about  ten  minutes,  I 
shall  say  as  I  go,  'Now  let  thy  servant  depart  in 
peace,'  like  they  do  in  church.  And  I  shall  mean  it. 
And  it  won't  be  peace  by  any  means;  but  I  shall  go." 

He  had  her  hand  in  his  own,  and  it  was  very 
still.  From  one  heart  to  another  fleeted  silent  eloquent 
messengers,  to  and  fro,  passing  and  repassing  each 
other  as  they  bore  their  news.  Presently  she  said, 
not  moving,  nor  looking  his  way,  "Why  must  you  go  ?  " 

He  remained  sunk  in  thouGjht.  You  could  see 
the  muscles  of  his  face  twitching  like  telegraphic 
needles.    He  was  at  a  cross-road. 

He  jerked  himself  suddenly  together;  he  picked 
up  her  hand,  stooped,  and  kissed  it.  "I'm  going," 
he  said,  "because  I  must.  You've  made  a  man  of 
me,  which  is  more  than  my  mother  succeeded  in 
doing.     God  bless  you,  Sancie,  and  good-bye." 


1 82  OPEN  COUNTRY 

He  left  her  directly,  and  strode  through  the  rooms, 
looking  neither  right  nor  left.  He  passed  Vicky 
without  seeing  her  white  face,  and  gained  his  hat 
and  coat,  and  the  night. 

Vicky  presently  came  breathless  into  the  con- 
servatory. 

''Sancie,"  she  said,  "I'm  going.  You  must  come 
too." 

Sanchia,  without  moving,  said,  "I'm  quite  ready." 
Vicky  watched  her,  breathing  very  fast. 

"Look  here,  darling,"  she  said,  "has  Mr.  Ingram 
gone?" 

Her  sister's  woe-begone  eyes  gave  her  the  answer. 
Homes  of  injury  they  seemed,  homes  of  reproach. 

But  Vicky's  case  was  urgent.  She  must  know 
more.     This  was  no  time  for  reticence. 

"Did  he  tell  you  why  he  went?" 

"No,"  said  Sanchia.     "He  said  he  must  go." 

"He  told  you  nothing  more?" 

"No,  nothing  more."  And  then  she  grew  white 
and  looked  frightened.  "Oh,  Vicky,"  she  said, 
"let's  go  home." 

She  hardly  spoke  in  the  brougham,  and  Vicky, 
relieved  on  the  great  question,  did  not  press  her. 
The  man  was  gone,  anyhow!  She  acted  with  all 
kindness;  took  Sanchia's  hand,  and  kept  it  till  they 
were  home;  went  upstairs  with  her,  hovered,  sug- 
gested comforts  of  sorts,  proposed  herself  as  bed- 
fellow. But  Sanchia  had  recovered  command  of 
her  soul,  and  refused  all  such  comforts.     She  locked 


SANCHIA  KISSES  HANDS  183 

her  heart  up  and  pocketed  the  key;  she  smiled,  and 
was  very  cool.  The  cheek  she  gave  to  Vicky  was 
wholesome  and  fresh.  ''Good-night,  dear  one," 
she  said.  "I  shall  sleep  like  a  top.  I'm  nearly 
asleep  now."  So  Vicky  finally  went,  and  Sanchia, 
white  in  her  dismay,  unlocked  her  stricken  young 
heart  and  fondled  it,  nursing  her  wound. 


^o 


Vicky  knocked  at  the  door  of  her  mother's  room, 
and  waited  until  it  was  opened  by  that  bored  lady. 
''Let  me  come  in,  mamma,"  she  said;  "I've  got 
something  to  tell  you."     She  entered  as  she  spoke. 

"It's  very  inconvenient — "  Mrs.  Percival  began. 

"It  is,  mamma — most  inconvenient.  But  it  might 
be  worse — at  least,  I  suppose  so.  I've  come  to  tell 
you  that  Mr.  Ingram  left  the  Chevenixes  without 
telling  Sancie  why.  That's  quite  as  well.  And 
now  I'll  tell  you  that  he  has  a  wife  somewhere  in 
Sicily,  and  that  there  ought  to  have  been  a  divorce, 
but  there  hasn't  been." 

"Good  Heavens!"  said  Mrs.  Percival;  "good 
Heavens!" 

"Occasionally  Heaven  is  good,"  said  Vicky. 
"Better  than  we  deserve.  But  I  think  that  will  do 
for  the  present.  The  poor  darling  knows  nothing 
about  it — and  will  get  over  it,  I  suppose.  She's 
been  asked  to  Gorston,  I  happen  to  have  found  out. 
I  advise  you  to  let  her  go  there  at  once.  Good- 
night, mamma." 


CHAPTER  XVI 

GORSTON — WITH  A  DIFFERENCE 

Knowing  herself  wounded,  she  sped  to  Gorston, 
her  hand  clapped  to  her  heart;  but  she  had  written 
to  Senhouse  to  say  that  she  was  going  there  in  such 
a  way,  with  such  omissions,  as  to  reveal  to  him  that 
she  wanted  him.  "I  am  going  to  Gorston,"  she 
said,  "but  I  suppose  you  won't  be  there  this  time. 
I  shall  be  glad  to  be  away  from  London  for  a  little, 
to  look  at  flowers,  and  sketch,  and  do  other  whole- 
some things."  That  had  been  all,  and  more  than 
a  lyrical  outpouring  could  have  been  to  one  who  had 
a  harp  of  his  own.  Early  as  she  got  there,  she 
learned  of  him  as  entrenched,  and  as  she  stood  after 
luncheon  at  the  open  French  window,  inhaling 
peace  and  balm,  behold  him — the  loose-limbed  and 
keen — with  his  flapping  neckwear  and  sandalled 
feet,  swinging  over  the  lawn,  his  welcome  in  his 
eyes.  She  was  very  much  moved  when  she  gave 
him  her  hand.  ''Oh!"  she  murmured,  "oh!  how 
lovely  it  is  going  to  be."  He  had  no  more  to  say 
— couldn't  trust  himself. 

The  Bill  Hill  household  was  abroad,  playing  golf 
at  Biarritz.  Senhouse  had,  therefore,  proposed  him- 
self to  old  Lady  Mauleverer,  who  suffered  him  gladly. 

184 


GORSTON  AGAIN  185 

"Certainly,  you  shall  have  the  run  of  your  teeth — 
if  you  will  accept  of  it,"  she  had  told  him;  "and 
in  any  case  the  keepers  have  been  informed  that  the 
woods  are  to  be  saved.  I  suppose  that  will  meet 
your  case.  Pray  let  me  see  you  when  you  arrive 
in  your  gig."  She  received  him  with  a  semi-sincere 
formality  which  he  relished.  She  was  in  her  usual 
black  silk — cut  of  1840 — and  white  lace.  "Well, 
Master  Vagabond,  so  you've  come?"  "So  please 
your  ladyship — "  "And  how,  my  friend,  have  you 
come?"  asked  her  ladyship,  who  had  filaments  of 
dead  tongues  about  her  still,  ''Recte  si  possisl  si 
non — I  suppose."  Senhouse  nodded,  grinning.  And 
then,  "Let  us  understand  each  other,  my  dear  Sen- 
house,"  said  she.  "Of  course  you  know  that  she's 
coming  here?"  He  nodded  again.  "Yes,  I  know 
she  is."  "Now,"  said  my  lady,  "she's  too  young 
for  you,  in  my  opinion,  and  much  too  respectable. 
However,  if  she  beguiles  you  into  settling  down  into 
common  decency,  I  daresay  her  virtues  may  be 
sacrificed.  But  that  ought  to  be  quite  understood 
beforehand.  And  will  you  tell  me  what  you  pro- 
pose to  do  with  her?"  "Bless  you,"  said  Senhouse. 
"I  propose  to  make  her  as  happy  as  possible.  I 
propose  exactly  what  you  propose.  What  do  you 
take  me  for  ?"  But  the  lady  was  not  so  to  be  evaded. 
"That's  nonsense,  my  dear  man.  You  donH  pro- 
pose what  I  propose.  You  propose  to  make  love 
to  her — that's  what  you  propose." 

"I  propose  to  do  nothing  of  the  sort,  with  great 
respect,"    Senhouse   replied.     "I    believe   I    would 


1 86  OPEN  COUNTRY 

sooner  cut  my  foot  off.  I  propose,  on  the  contrary, 
to  conceal  the  facts,  as  I  take  them  to  be,  that  she's 
an  angel  of  light  and  myself  unworthy  to  tie  her  shoe- 
string. I  propose  to  interest  her  in  vastly  more  im- 
portant things  than  the  state  of  my  liver — for  they 
tell  me  that  love  affects  that  organ,  and  not  the  heart, 
as  is  popularly  supposed.  I  read  in  her  letters  that 
she  is  suffering  from  London  sickness.  She  has 
been  danced  too  much,  supped  too  often;  she  ha^ 
heard  too  much  chatter,  and  wonders  if  the  real 
world  is  still  pulsing  along — out  here  in  the  quiet 
green  places.  Well,  I  propose  to  show  her  that  it 
does.  I've  been  in  your  woods  sixteen  hours,  and 
this  morning,  before  you  were  awake,  I  made  friends 
with  a  bitch-fox.  I  was  introduced  to  the  family 
— four  of  them.  She  shall  get  to  know  them,  too. 
That'll  be  better  for  her  than  to  talk  of  men  about 
town." 

"I  agree  with  you,"  said  Lady  Mauleverer,  who 
added  after  a  moment,  ''Don't  make  too  much  fuss 
with  her.  You'll  turn  her  head.  She'll  have  to  be 
married  some  day."  "Of  course  she  will,"  says  he, 
"when  she's  found  a  hero."  Lady  Mauleverer  made 
him  stay  to  dinner. 

For  the  first  day  or  so  it  seemed  that  the  last 
year's  glamour  was  returned.  Enchanting  weather 
worked  its  old  spell.  The  recollected  young  lady 
of  fashion  suffered  a  wood-change,  the  staid  sheath 
opened  and  the  Dryad  came  forth,  frcc-bosomed, 
bare-footed,  heedless,  and  untouched.     The  Gorston 


GORSTON  AGAIN  187 

oaks  knew  her;  the  Gorston  beeches  dappled  her 
with  hght;  she  peered  by  the  hly-pool  and  flushed 
her  remembered  delight;  she  was  abroad  in  the 
morning  dew,  and  in  sober  mood  listened  while  he 
talked  to  her  in  the  charmed  evening  light.  With 
him,  her  excitement  shining  in  her  eyes  and  welling 
from  her  parted  lips,  she  made  acquaintance  with 
the  brown  bitch-fox,  who,  reclining  in  luxurious 
ease,  demurely  kept  her  staring  yellow  eyes  upon 
the  furry  bundles  at  her  dugs,  but  allowed  herself 
to  be  caressed,  and  to  have  her  treasures  rifled  one 
by  one;  and  stretched  her  legs  out  to  the  full,  and 
extended  her  claws  to  the  compliments  she  received. 
Sanchia,  for  that  half  hour,  had  but  one  desire  in 
her  heart,  to  make  a  friend  of  this  mother  of  foxes. 
"Oh,  do  look  at  me,  you  darling;  oh,  please  do! 
You  know  I  wouldn't  hurt  you  for  the  world.  You 
know  I  wouldn't  hurt  you!"  But  Senhouse  had  to 
explain.  "She  won't  look  at  either  of  us.  Not 
she.  After  that  first  blank  gaze  of  encounter,  I 
never  knew  a  wild  thing  that  would  look  at  you 
again.  A  dog  will  do  it — and  that's  a  sign.  A 
monkey  does  it — in  the  zoo — but  not  to  see  you, 
mind.  They  look  round  about  your  eyes.  They 
pore  over  you  as  one  gazes  at  the  sky.  To  my  mind, 
that's  a  certainty  that  we  and  they  aren't  akin. 
There  must  have  come  a  gleam  between  us.  But 
there  never  has."  "And  there's  none  between  us 
and  the  sky  either,"  said  Sanchia  softly.  He 
laughed.  "No,  no.  We're  not  related.  What's 
worse — we  can't  get  at  flowers  either,  where  there's 


1 88  OPEN  COUNTRY 

much  more  reason  to  expect  it.  We  woo  and  mate 
and  breed  and  nourish  just  in  the  same  way — but 
there  it  is.  We  in  our  cage,  and  they  in  theirs. 
We  may  love  and  look  and  like,  but  we  can't  speak. 
Our  tongues  are  tied,  my  dear."  "Are  they?" 
echoed  Sanchia  softly.  ''Are  they  tied?  I  sup- 
pose they  are." 

At  that  season  of  the  opening  year,  when  the 
bird  of  love,  darkling  in  covert,  grieves  musically 
day  and  night,  when  in  wood-bottoms  the  blue- 
bells show  like  a  skyey  film  shed  upon  earth,  and 
when  every  morning's  soft  wind  renews  the  hope- 
fulness of  every  evening's  quiet,  Senhouse  spent 
himself  in  the  honour  of  his  love.  In  the  forest — 
she  seated  with  her  camp-stool  and  drawing-block 
— he  would  pad  the  spread  beech-mast,  where  bright 
green  wood-sorrel,  starred  with  its  pencilled  flowers, 
is  the  only  verdure  in  a  russet  sea,  up  and  down, 
up  and  down,  hands  deep  in  pockets,  eyes  rapt,  or 
restless,  peering  to  inquire  and  to  see;  and  he  would 
talk  to  her  fast  and  fiercely  of  everything  in  Heaven 
or  beneath  it.  Men,  women,  beasts;  thrones,  do- 
minions, and  powers — yes,  he  spent  himself  in  her 
honour.  For  everything  reduced  itself  to  her  denom- 
ination; he  did  not  pretend  to  see  anything  now 
but  in  relation  to  her.  He  had  no  reticences  about 
his  prime  factor,  did  not  conceal  his  utter  love  for 
her.  It  would  have  been  a  hindrance  to  his  tongue, 
and  absurd  also.  So  the  day  dawned  when  he  threw 
all  his  chances  at  her  feet.  "I  have  no  rights,  and 
plead  none  which  are  not  every  man's  who  has  ever 


GORSTON  AGAIN  189 

met  you.  The  right  to  love  you,  you  can't  deny  me 
— nor  would  you  if  you  could.  Liberty  to  walk  in 
the  light  you  throw — liberty  to  aim  at  the  high  mark 
you  lift  up.  They  belong  to  all  the  world — you 
can't  deny  your  divinity.  The  Queen  might  as 
well  refuse  to  be  called  Majesty.  That  thing's 
not  thinkable.  And  now  let's  see  what  you're  mak- 
ing of  the  bluebell  bottom."  He  always  broke  off 
in  that  fashion,  never  held  to  his  note,  lest  she 
might  be  tempted  by  pity  to  comfort  him.  She 
heard  him  after  this  inconsequent  fashion  more 
than  once;  he  never  gave  her  a  chance  of  replying. 
Sometimes  she  fancied  that  he  didn't  want  her  to 
reply. 

As  of  old,  he  charmed,  interested,  flattered,  and 
excited  her.  He  opened  vistas,  he  blew  sweet  air 
into  close  recesses,  he  stimulated  her  pride  and  curi- 
osity at  once.  But  the  heart  of  a  child  is  a  fitful 
organ;  and  the  wind  bloweth  as  it  listeth  through 
the  strings.  Some  chord  in  hers  was  left  unthrilled ; 
there  was  no  melodious  response.  That  had  been 
blown  through  her  and  out  of  her  by  another  eager 
breath.     She  could  listen  only  to  that. 

He  discerned  it,  and  resigned  himself  to  the 
honour  that  remained  to  him,  barren  though  it  was 
to  be — the  honour  high  and  open  to  love  her  only. 
He  called  himself  philosopher,  but  he  was  a  wild 
extremist  in  such  a  matter.  Not  Dante  himself 
transcendentalised  his  Beatrice  to  more  ethereal 
substance  than  he  his  Sanchia.  Literally,  towards 
her  at  this  hour  he  felt  no  drawings  of  his  members: 


IQO  OPEN   COUNTRY 

he  craved  no  touch  of  her,  neither  of  the  hands  nor 
the  Hps ;  nor  any  long  sight  when  her  eyes  were  upon 
his.  To  his  extravagant  fancy  the  fond  gazing  of 
lovers  seemed  an  unholy  secret.  As  Moses  covered 
his  eyes  before  the  Bush,  so  he  before  her  burning 
youth.  To  him  she  had  no  parts,  but  was  all  a 
glory  of  Essence,  of  wondrous  pure  Being.  Had 
she  thawed  by  some  sudden  kindling  and  thrown 
herself  sobbing  in  his  arms,  I  doubt  whether,  at 
this  hour,  he  would  have  dared  to  clasp  her.  As  for 
kissing — not  for  him,  not  for  him,  the  frail  marvel 
of  her  lips.  And  yet  he  was  a  man,  much  of  a  man, 
and  had  lived  as  a  man  must  (if  he  is  to  find  himself 
so).  Love's  course  was  curbed;  love's  course  was 
to  be — man's;  but  at  this  hour  he  saw  her  sexless, 
"a  lovely  lady  garmented  in  light."  To  such  as 
he  was,  one  does  not  lay  hands  upon  one's  father 
Parmenides,  nor  upon  the  Mother  and  Adoration 
of  the  Christians.  Artemis  might  kiss  Endymion 
if  she  pleased ;  but  Hippolytus  went  veiled  when  she 
brought  him  to  her  Sanctuary  to  minister. 

She  never  spoke  of  Ingram  to  him,  though  from 
her  broken  hints  of  London  ways  and  days  he  guessed 
at  Ingram's  likes.  She  was  talking  once  of  the 
difficulty  of  keeping  simple  up  there  in  London. 
"It's  all  right,"  she  said,  "if  everybody's  simple 
too,  and  sees  things  as  you  do.  But  they're  not,  you 
sec,  and  then  you  are  made  sorry.  They  are  dread- 
fully complicated.  You  get  imposed  upon,  in  a 
way."     He  heard  her  miserably;   avenues  of  horror 


GORSTON  AGAIN  191 

opened  up  for  moments  at  a  time;  he  had  a  vision 
of  her  white  and  abandoned,  shocked  to  the  soul. 
But  his  courage  shut  them  down,  and  his  loyalty 
came  up  radiant.  "Have  no  fear,"  he  told  her; 
''be  yourself.  Nothing  can  harm  you  then — noth- 
ing whatsoever.  With  faith  you  can  remove  moun- 
tains, they  say — and  that  may  be  true.  What  is 
certain  is,  that  by  sincerity  you  can  stand  through 
earthquake  and  eclipse.  I  can't  handle  Goodness 
like  Plato,  as  if  it  were  a  sphere.  I  believe  in  Good- 
ness as  such,  though  I  don't  know  its  specific  grav- 
ity ;  but  what  I  do  know  about  it  is  that  when  a  wom- 
an with  it  in  her  goes  out  to  war  against  a  man  (say) 
with  the  other  raging  in  him,  she  always  wins.  Always, 
always.  The  thing  is  adamant — absolutely  devil- 
proof.  Take  my  word  for  it.  Queen  Mab."  She 
looked  him  her  gratitude  and  rewarded  him  sevenfold. 
But  London,  her  responsibilities,  or  something, 
had  sobered  her;  she  was  not  the  Fairy  Queen  she 
had  been.  He  put  it  down  to  "growing  pains," 
shades  of  the  prison  house.  She  excused  herself 
from  hearing  poetry,  for  instance,  even  his  poetry, 
telling  him  that  her  mind  wanted  grinding.  He  was 
to  find  her  rougher  material,  something  gritty. 
Recognising  the  sanity  of  the  choice,  he  overhauled 
his  tattered  classics,  rejected  Thoreau  and  Marcus 
Aurelius,  that  mild-mannered  Caesar  whom  he 
called  Zeno  in  a  frock-coat,  and  chose  for  Epictctus 
himself.  The  extravagant  common-sense  of  the 
free  slave  was  tonic,  and  yet  harmless,  since  it  was 
quite  impossible  of  attainment. 


192  OPEN  COUNTRY 

"Seek  not  to  have  things  happen  as  you  choose 
them,  but  rather  choose  tJtem  to  Imp  pen  as  they  do; 
and  so  shall  you  live  prosperously.  .  .  .  Lameness  is 
a  hindrance  of  the  leg,  not  of  the  willy 

Glorious,  immortal  platitude! 

"Oh,  my  Sanchia,  grieving  after  I  know  not 
what,  listen  now  to  this:  ^But  when  shall  I  see 
Athens  again,  a^id  the  Acropolis?^     Thus  the  pupil. 

'"Wretched  mayi,''  storms  the  sage,  ^doth  not  that 
satisfy  thee  which  thou  canst  see  every  day?  Hast 
thou  aught  better  to  see,  or  greater,  than  the  sun,  moon, 
stars,  this  earth,  the  sea?  How  should' st  thou  have 
aught  in  common  with  Socrates,  dying  as  he  died, 
living  as  he  lived?  Dost  thou  suppose  him  lament- 
ing, or  in  a  rage,  because  he  should  see  such  a  man 
no  more,  or  such  a  woman? ^^^ 

All  unconscious  how  that  shot  might  go,  and 
glowing  with  its  magnificent  simplicity,  he  could 
never  have  told  from  his  Sanchia's  eyes,  diligent 
upon  her  painting,  how  short  he  had  come  of  the 
mark.  Troubled  little  Sanchia !  Video  meliora  pro- 
boque,  deteriora  sequor,  might  she  say. 

But  Epictetus  did  very  well,  preventing  search- 
ings  of  heart. 

Towards  the  end  of  the  first  week  of  her  fort- 
night the  elation  with  which  she  had  begun  it  died 
down;  she  grew  rather  restless.  Then  she  received 
a  letter  from  Ingram  which  asked  for  an  interview. 
He  wrote,  "It  is  a  good  deal  to  ask  of  you,  I  know. 
I  hope  you  will  be  able  to  agree,  all  the  same.     I 


GORSTON  AGAIN  193 

have  seen  your  people,  who  were  extremely  kind. 
I  can't  suppose  that  you  will  be  less  so."  What 
that  might  mean  she  did  not  understand,  but  she  re- 
plied favourably.  She  would  be  very  glad  to  see 
him,  she  said,  and  was  returning  on  such  and  such 
a  day.  Not  an  earlier  day  than  she  had  first  in- 
tended ;  she  did  not  choose  for  that.  Her  plans  were 
respectable  things  in  her  eyes,  not  to  be  varied  ex- 
cept for  extraordinary  occasions.  An  access  of 
friendliness  to  Senhouse  was  the  immediate  result 
of  this  correspondence.  It  was  as  if  she  felt  herself 
suddenly  free  to  be  natural;  as  a  new  convert  to 
Catholicism  will  permit  himself  liberties  of  speech, 
and  handle  God  more  familiarly  than  before — from 
the  safe  shelter  of  the  pinfold.  Thus  our  poor  friend's 
spell  of  bliss  had  a  serene  close. 

As  before,  his  going  preceded  hers.  He  was 
for  Mosedale  in  Cumberland,  to  look  after  his 
gardening,  or  reap  its  fruits;  and  she  saw  him  go. 
But  his  reward  had  been  bestowed  upon  him  over- 
night, when  she  had  been  very  tender,  given  him 
her  hand,  called  him  her  friend. 

And  then  he  had  said,  *'If  you  mean  what  you 
say — and  I  know  that  you  do — I  shall  claim  a 
friend's  wages." 

I'll  pay  you — if  I  can,"  she  told  him. 
T  do  think  you  should,"  he  said.  "Supposing 
that  I'm  any  use  to  you — supposing  that  I  know  a 
thing  or  two  about  life,  about  you,  which  you  don't 
know — why,  give  me  a  chance  to  tell  you  what  I 
know.     When  you  find  yourself  in  a  fix,  send  for  me. 


194  OPEN  COUNTRY 

When  you  think  I  can  be  of  use,  do  me  the  honour 
of  using  me.  Send  for  me  at  any  hour  of  day  or 
night,  and  I  come  direct.  I  can  always  be  found. 
Charnock  knows  where  I  am — and  so  do  you,  I 
fancy.  I  generally  tell  you  when  I  write — and  now 
I  always  shall.  You  can't  miss  me  possibly — and 
you  can  make  me  singularly  happy  by  doing  that. 
Even  if  I'm  no  real  service  to  you,  I  think  I'll  ask 
you  for  that  promise.  Put  it  that  it'll  be  a  real  ser- 
vice to  me,  and  you'll  be  nearer  the  truth."  She 
was  pleased,  there's  no  doubt;   yet  slow  to  promise. 

''You  know  that  I  always  tell  you  my  troubles. 

"No,  I  don't,  my  dear.  I  wish  I  did.  I'm 
pretty  sure,  indeed,  that  you  don't." 

Now,  that  couldn't  be  denied.  He  went  on, 
•''I  haven't  asked  you  to  do  that — and  I  shan't. 
It  would  be  insufferable  to  ask  it,  ridiculous  to  ex- 
pect it.  It's  only  when  you  think  that  I  can  be  of 
use.     I  leave  you  to  judge.     Willingly." 

She  said,  ''Of  course  I  should  ask  you  then.  Do 
you  want  me  to  promise?" 

He  looked  up  at  her.     "I  do,  my  dear." 

She  stooped  and  touched  his  forehead  with  her 
lips.  "Then  I  do  promise,"  she  told  him,  and  he 
was  content — or  believed  that  he  was. 

Their  actual  parting  lacked  the  romance  of  last 
year's.  He  deprived  himself  of  that  deliberately 
— for  her  sake  and  his  own.  Besides,  he  wished 
to  keep  undimmed  the  memory  of  her  kiss.  He 
said  his  farewells  at  the  front  door,  like  a  visitor, 


GORSTON  AGAIN  195 

and  Lady  Mauleverer,  her  arm  within  the  girl's, 
waved  him  the  braver  farewell.  Sanchia  did  not 
lift  her  hand,  but  looked  her  speeding. 

Soon  afterwards  she  went  home  to  Great  Cumber- 
land Place. 


CHAPTER  XVII 

MRS.   PERCIVAL  IS   STAUNCH  TO  THE  IDEA 

When  Mr.  William  Chevenix  came  up  to  explain 
himself  in  Great  Cumberland  Place,  he  found  that 
there  was  a  good  deal  to  explain.  He  was  a  simple 
youth,  for  all  that  he  was  not  so  simple  as  he  seemed; 
but  he  quite  appreciated  the  difficulty  there  may  be 
in  accounting  for  a  thing  of  the  kind.  Put  it  this 
way:  If  it  had  never  entered  his  head  to  refer  to 
Mr.  Ingram's  marriage,  why  did  he  open  darkly  of 
it  to  Vicky  in  a  retired  corner?  If  it  had  always 
been  at  the  back  of  his  mind  from  the  beginning, 
why  had  he  kept  it  there  so  long  ?  The  dilemma  was 
implied  in  every  muscle  of  Mrs.  Percival's  stiff  neck 
and  in  every  pucker  of  Mr.  Percival's  troubled  face, 
and  was  cause  of  great  torment  to  Mr.  Chevenix's 
soul. 

But  as  he  writhed  before  his  judges,  the  mere 
instinct  to  find  ease  urged  his  wits,  and  he  did  suc- 
ceed in  rounding  upon  them.  This  was  how  he  put 
it.  **Of  course  I've  know  Nevile  for  years — for 
years  and  years.  We  were  at  the  same  dame- 
school,  you  know,  and  went  up  to  Eton  the  same 
term.     And  of  course  I  knew  he  was  married,  when 

I'd  been  best  man  and  all  that,  and  had  dined  with 

196 


MRS.  PERCIVAL  IS   STAUNCH  197 

him  the  night  before,  and  drunk  his  health — which 
was  always  first-class — and  happiness,  which  I  jolly 
well  knew  he  wouldn't  get.  Couldn't,  you  know, 
with  herl  I  admit  all  that;  but  what  beats  me  now 
is  this.  What's  Nevile  done  in  particular  that 
makes  you  so  down  on  him?  I  give  you  my  word, 
that  when  I  told  Miss  Vicky  about  it  I'd  forgotten 
that  she  hadn't  danced  at  the  wedding.  I  vow  that 
I  had.  What  I  said  was  this.  She  had  some  flow- 
ers on,  d'ye  see?  Stephanotis.  I  said,  snuffing  the 
air,  '  You  remind  me  of  Claire ;  she  always  wore  that 
stuff.'  Miss  Vicky  pricks  up  her  ears — oh,  she's 
sharp!  I  see  that  now.  'Who's  Claire?'  she  says, 
like  a  captain's  bell;  and  I  stare.  'Why,  Mrs. 
Nevile,'  I  say;  ^you  know.'  Then  I  see  how  she 
looks  at  me.  'Yes,'  she  says,  'I  do  know — at  last.' 
I  assure  you  that's  how  it  went.  Now,  you  know, 
I  might  have  said  that  the  very  first  time  I  spoke 
about  Nevile,  and  you  wouldn't  have  thought  any- 
thing of  it.  And  why  do  you  now?  What's  he 
done?  Nothing  that  I  know  of.  If  he  has,  of 
course  I  take  the  blame.  But  has  he?  That's  the 
point,  you  see,  Mrs.  Percival." 

It  was  not  the  point,  but  he  made  it  so  in  his  need. 
Nobody  present  could  charge  Ingram  with  any- 
thing except  a  fondness  for  study  in  Sanchia's  com- 
pany— a  fondness  for  study  which  she  shared.  No- 
body in  the  household  could  charge  him  either,  for 
Vicky's  surmises  were  based  upon  her  unconcealed 
dislike  of  the  man.  There  was  only  one  person,  in 
fact,  who  could  have  anything  to  say,  and  she,  it 


198  OPEN   COUNTRY 

was  plain  to  Chevenix,  and  his  enormous  consola- 
tion, could  neither  be  asked  to  say  it  nor  got  to  say 
it.  *'  Sancie  will  stick  to  her  friends,  don't  you  fear," 
the  astute  sufferer  told  himself. 

The  Percival  pair  saw  the  point  quite  well.  Mr. 
Percival,  who  had  never  made  any  charges  against 
his  beloved,  now  grew  very  red  in  the  face;  Mrs. 
Percival,  who,  perhaps,  had  made  too  many,  moist- 
ened her  lips. 

It  was  she  who  spoke  first.  '^I  make  no  charges, 
Mr.  Chevenix;  pray  do  not  misunderstand  me. 
We  have  always  been  glad  to  receive  your  friend. 
He  has  been  welcome;  I  hope  he  is  aware  of  that.  But 
it's  as  well  to  loiow  where  we  stand.  I  gather  that 
Mrs.  Ingram  does  not  reside — is  not  at  present  in ^" 

''No,  she  doesn't,"  replied  Mr.  Chevenix.  ''No,, 
she  isn't,  and  isn't  likely  to  be.  She  lives  in  Sicily, 
I  believe — or  she  did."  After  a  pause  he  thought  it  well 
to  say,  with  a  final  air,  "She's  no  good,  you  know." 

''What  do  you  mean  by  that,  Chevenix?"  asked 
Mr.  Percival,  and  added  to  his  wife,  "Must  get  to 
the  bottom  of  it,  my  dear." 

Then  Mr.  Chevenix  explained  that  his  friend 
Nevile's  wife  was  separated  from  her  husband,  and 
had  left  him  within  a  year  of  marriage.  As  he 
put  it,  Ingram  was  an  injured  man.  "There  were 
faults  on  both  sides,  no  doubt.  Nevile's  temper 
is  queer — oh,  queer  1  And  there  were  racketings, 
I  daresay — a  man  can't  talk  of  these  things  very 
well.  But  this  I  will  say" — and  his  voice  gained 
clearness  with  confidence  as  it  touched  the  moral 


MRS.   PERCIVAL   IS   STAUNCH  199 

heights — "that  there  was  no  doubt  at  all  about 
Mrs.  Nevile — oh,  none!  She  was  a  bad  one.  Not 
only  talked  about,  understand — Lord,  no!  It  was 
known,  positively  known.  There  was  Charley —  Oh, 
one  can't  go  into  it!"  No  one  wanted  to  go  into 
it  less  than  troubled  Mr.  Percival,  who  said,  "Let  it 
alone,  Chevenix." 

Chevenix  was  grateful.  "Thanks!"  he  said,  and 
turned  to  his  friend's  virtues.  "Mind  you,  Mrs. 
Percival,  it's  to  Nevile's  credit,  very  greatly  to  his 
credit,  that  he's  made  no  fuss.  He's  been  content 
to  abide  by  his  bargain.  He's  said,  'I  was  a  wrong- 
headed  young  fool;  but  I  won't  make  it  worse  by 
dragging  a  woman  through  the  mud.'  And  he 
hasn't.  He's  allowanced  her  and  let  her  rip — let 
her  alone,  you  know.  Now,"  he  added,  looking 
from  one  to  the  other  for  a  sympathetic  verdict, 
"now,  what's  the  worst  thing  Nevile's  done  since? 
All  he's  done  has  been  to  get  what  he  can  out  of  what's 
left.  And  you'll  allow  me  to  say,  Mrs.  Percival, 
that  if  he's  got  the  benefit  of  your  society,  you  know, 
he's  done  about  the  best  thing  there  was  to  do." 

He  was  a  good  advocate  under  the  rack.  Mrs. 
Percival  was  certainly  moved.     Mr.  Percival  was  not. 

"That's  all  very  well,  Chevenix,"  he  said  heavily. 
"I'm  not  one  to  be  down  on  a  man  who's  made  a 
fool  of  himself.  But  he  mustn't  make  a  fool  of  my 
daughter.  Because  I  call  that  making  a  knave  of 
himself — if  you  ask  me." 

Mrs.  Percival  was  now  shocked.  Strung  to  en- 
thusiasm by  the  candour  of  a  Chevenix,  she  could 


200  OPEN  COUNTRY 

not  relish  this  city  touch.  It  was  under  the  goad 
of  her  husband — so  painfully,  to  her  mind,  the  plain 
British  merchant — that  she  soared  out  of  his  reach 
into  an  upper  air. 

She  raised  her  head,  she  smiled;  the  light  of 
faith  gleamed  in  her  eyes.  "I  can  trust  my  girls," 
she  said,  thrilling — "i  can  trust  my  girls!" 

Now  how  was  poor  Mr.  Percival  to  contend  that 
she  could  not,  without  seeming  to  smirch  the  white 
robe  of  his  darling?  He  was  left  speechless  by  his 
wife,  just  as  she  had  been  by  Mr.  Chevenix. 

Mrs.  Percival,  it  has  been  hinted,  had,  to  an  al- 
most superhuman  degree,  the  power  of  believing 
what  she  wanted  to  believe.  Her  desires,  aspira- 
tions, whatever  they  were,  seemed  to  come  to  her 
with  a  divine  sanction  upon  them,  which  made  doubt 
or  denial  impious.  So,  at  least,  she  must  have 
entertained  them.  They  lifted  her  to  that  serener 
air  where  nothing  was  incredible,  where,  as  she 
would  remind  you.  Faith  is  melted  into  Sight.  Here 
was  a  case  exactly  in  point.  She  liked  Mr.  Ingram; 
she  respected  his  birth  and  begetting.  He  was 
Ingram  of  Wanless;  she  respected  his  wealth  and 
standing;  she  admired  all  that  he  represented. 
He  was  good  style,  good  form,  knew  the  right  people, 
and  took  as  a  matter  of  course  things  which  to  her 
were  matters  of  striving  and  contrivance.  And  she 
loved  her  daughters,  and  loved  them  to  love  the 
things  which  she  thought  loveworthy.  If  county 
birth  and  long  descent,  if  high  education  and  the 
service  of  one's  country  in  arms,  were  not  loveworthy, 


MRS.   PERCIVAL  IS   STAUNCH  201 

let  her  daughters  hide  beneath  her  wings  until  the 
hawk-like  shadow  were  passed  over.  But  were 
they  not?  Was  not  the  young  man  a  patrician  by 
every  mark?  Was  not  his  very  mating  a  sign  of 
that?  His  wife — deplorable,  if  you  please — had 
been  a  Pierpoint;  she  had  been  Claire  Pierpoint. 
Did  not  everybody  know  the  Pierpoints?  En- 
tertainers of  Royalty,  familiars  of  the  reigning  house! 
If  these  were  not  marks  of  distinction,  let  her  daugh- 
ters cower;  but  if  they  were — as  were  they  not? — 
let  them  show  of  what  stuff  they  were  made.  Ever 
pressing  forward  to  the  mark  of  our  high  calling! 
When  had  she  held  back  from  that?  And  were 
they  not  flesh  of  her  flesh,  bone  of  her  bone  ?  Could 
she  dare  think  otherwise?  or  could  she  do  other- 
wise than  lift  her  head  at  the  mere  hint?  There- 
fore she  said,  "I  can  trust  my  girls!"  and  smiled 
mystically  towards  the  cornice. 

Enthusiasm  is  catching;  Mr.  William  Chevenix 
caught  it.  "That's  stunning  of  you,  Mrs.  Percival. 
I  say,  but  that's  fine,  you  know."  He  got  up  and 
stood  before  her;  she  extended  her  hand  to  him, 
both  her  hands.  It  was  an  emotional  moment. 
She  gulped;  her  voice  was  broken.  She  said,  ''My 
darling  is  to  be  trusted.  And  who  can  say  what 
power  there  may  not  be  in  the  pure  mind  of  a  Chris- 
tian child?"  To  which  Mr.  Chevenix  had  no 
more  apt  reply  handy  than,  "By  Jove,  no!" 

The  consequence  of  this  moving  scene  was  that 
Nevile  Ingram,   by  invitation,   paid   Mrs.   Percival 


202  OPEN  COUNTRY 

a  morning  call,  and  was  received  in  the  morning- 
room.  He  was  in  a  sober  mood,  and  spoke  like  a 
gentleman. 

"I  don't  attempt  to  excuse  myself,"  he  said; 
"but  it  was  a  long  time  ago.  If  I  have  succeeded 
in  forgetting  something  of  it,  it's  lucky  for  me.  I 
married  her  when  I  was  one-and-twenty,  and  she 
left  me  on  my  twenty-second  birthday — on  that  very 
day.  One  can't  forget  such  things,  of  course,  but 
one  does  one's  best.  I  was  badly  hit,  you  may 
understand.  I  travelled  a  lot;  went  round  the 
world,  twice  to  India,  once  to  Central  Africa;  crossed 
the  Rockies,  and  all  that  kind  of  thing.  I  never 
really  settled  down  at  Wanless  till  this  time  last 
year — but  now  I  mean  to  sit  tight  up  there.  One 
has  duties  of  sorts,  you  know.  If  I  forgot  what  I 
had  hanging  round  my  neck,  you  ought  not  to  blame 
me — it's  been  your  fault,  largely,  and  I'm  grateful. 
Your  girls  have  opened  my  eyes — they've  taught 
me  things  which  I  never  expected  to  know  even  the 
outside  of.  Better  things  than  hunting  and  globe- 
trotting— sounder  things  than  them.  There's  your 
daughter  Philippa,  now — Mrs.  Tompsett-King.  She's 
been  a  good  angel  to  me — I  hold  to  that — wonderful ! " 
Mrs.  Pcrcival,  through  a  mist  of  tears,  smiled  gently 
upon  him,  nodding  her  head.  This  was  exactly 
what  she  wanted.     He  continued  the  vein. 

"I'm  pretty  lonely,  you  know.  I  was  an  only 
child — and  there  ain't  many  Ingrams  left,  so  far  as 
I  know.  I  wanted  sisters — and  I've  got  'em — 
thanks  to  this  house.     That's  all  the  harm  I've  done 


MRS.   PERCIVAL   IS   STAUNCH  203 

SO  far,  ma'am — upon  my  word  of  honour.  Sisters! 
That's  it." 

Sisters  1  Capacious  word !  Mrs.  Percival  was 
deeply  moved.  She  wept — and  she  kissed  Nevile 
Ingram.  There  remained  for  him — at  his  own  ex- 
press desire — a  short  interview  with  Mr.  Percival. 

Here  he  took  the  line  of  least  resistance,  as  indi- 
cated by  the  merchant. 

"Look  here,  Ingram,"  Mr.  Percival  had  said,  in- 
specting the  ash  of  his  cigar.  "My  wife  runs  the 
house,  as  I  daresay  you've  noticed.  And  very  well 
she  does  it.  It's  not  my  department  at  all,  and  I 
don't  interfere.  You've  made  her  see  your  position, 
I  understand?" 

"Quite,  I  hope,"  said  Ingram. 

Mr.  Percival  smoked  on  thoughtfully.  "All  right, 
my  boy,"  he  said  presently.  "I've  every  confi- 
dence in  her  judgment.  That's  of  course."  And 
then  he  rose  and  stood  before  the  fireplace.  "But 
listen  to  me  for  one  moment.  Sancie  is  away  just 
now,  as  perhaps  you  know." 

Ingram  nodded.     He  knew  it  perfectly  well. 

"She  returns  within  a  day  or  two — God  bless 
her! — and  she's  got  to  know  about  this.  Mind 
you  that!  She's  got  to  be  told  it — somehow.  And  it 
must  be  done  in  a  way  that  don't  frighten  the  child. 
If  she  thinks  there  are  ideas  in  our  heads,  she'll 
get  'em  in  hers.     And  that  will  work  the  mischief." 

Simple  Mr.  Percival  had  by  this  last  speech  of 
his  put  himself  completely  into  Ingram's  hands. 

"Excuse  me,"  he  said,  "but  I  don't  quite  follow 


204  OPEN  COUNTRY 

you.  What  idea  you  may  have  in  your  head  I'm 
not  able  to  determine;  but  I  can  assure  you  that  I. 
have  none  in  mine.  Nor  do  I  quite  see  what  ideas 
you  assume  to  be  there. 

Mr.  Percival  turned  to  flick  his  ash  into  the 
grate.  ''Oh,  quite  so,  quite  so,"  he  said  with  some 
haste.  ''Naturally — none.  I  thought  I'd  just  caution 
you." 

"And  you  were  perfectly  right,"  said  Ingram, 
"if  you  had  any  caution  to  give  me.  I  only  wish 
to  explain  that  I  am  entirely  unaware  what  sort  of 
ideas  you  are  afraid  of."  After  that  Mr.  Percival 
found  himself  making  much  of  Nevile  Ingram — 
smoothing  him  down,  and  all  that  sort  of  thing. 

Mrs.  Percival's  staunchness  to  the  Idea  may  be 
commended.  In  its  way  it  is  rather  fine.  She  was, 
perhaps,  a  poet  in  this,  that,  to  her,  ideas  stood  for 
things.  But  she  got  at  them,  or  rather  enclosed 
them  in  a  circle,  the  beginning  and  end  of  which  was 
exaltation.  The  notion  that  her  daughters  were  to 
be  trusted  was  an  uplifting  one.  Being  exalted,  she 
said  that  she  could  trust  them,  and  she  did.  Trust- 
ing Ihem,  she  found  herself  exalted.  Now  to  In- 
gram, desires  stood  for  reasons,  just  as  to  the  lady 
they  stood  for  the  fact.  He  wanted  Sanchia  more 
than  he  had  ever  wanted  anything — or  believed  that 
he  did:  therefore  he  must  have  Sanchia.  He 
wanted  her  because  her  society  and  nearness  made 
him  feel  an  honest  man.  Now  it  was  reasonable 
that  a  man  should  want  to  feel  honest;   therefore  to 


MRS.   PERCIVAL   IS   STAUNCH  205 

want  Sanchia  was  reasonable.  That  was  how  he 
worked  it  out.  It  never  occurred  to  him  to  con- 
sider whether  it  was  reasonable  from  Sanchia's  side 
that  she  should  be  wanted  by  a  married  man,  or  be 
brought  into  a  state  where  she  should  want  one. 
Such  things  never  do  occur  to  the  Nevile  Ingrams 
of  this  world ;  but  I  think  he  would  have  raised  his 
eyebrows  if  you  had  put  it  to  him;  and  probably  he 
might  have  said,  ''I  suppose  she  don't  want  a  fel- 
low to  go  to  the  devil."  This  reminds  one  of  the 
protest  of  the  spendthrift  duke  who  was  advised  to 
make  a  beginning  of  retrenchment  by  putting  down 
his  pastry-cook.  He  also  raised  his  eyebrows,  and 
said  it  was  rather  hard  if  a  man  couldn't  have  a  bis- 
cuit with  his  glass  of  sherr}-. 


CHAPTER  XVIII 

INGRAM   URGES   A   '' MODUS   VIVENDI " 

Sanchia  came  back  to  town,  with  her  letter  in 
her  bosom — her  letter  of  appointment  and  promise. 
So  much  tenderness  she  felt  to  be  due  to  its  occa- 
sion, if  not  to  its  writer.  That  little  scene  at  the 
dance  in  Chesterfield  Gardens  had  been  like  a  sud- 
den finger  laid  upon  her  heart.  It  had  revealed  to 
her  a  sensitive  point,  it  had  produced  an  ache.  Be- 
fore that,  she  now  realised,  there  must  have  been 
inflammation.  And  with  her  cherishing  hand  upon 
the  wounded  part  she  had  explored  the  symptoms 
and  the  area  of  that  sweet  disease — ever  since  it  had 
been  shown  to  be  a  disease. 

The  household  had  shown  her  that.  Vicky's 
alternating  fits  of  mysterious  reticence  and  elabo- 
rate protection;  her  "my  poor  darling,"  and  her 
non  ragioniam''  di  lor;  all  these  hard  upon  Ingram's 
flight — oh,  yes,  she  was  a  stricken  deer. 

Stricken,  she  had  fled  to  the  Gorston  thickets,  and 
in  her  friend's  society  had  revelled  in  the  sympathy 
he  would  certainly  have  given  her  if  she  had  chosen 
to  seek  it  of  him.  She  had  not  chosen;  but  she 
liked  to  know  that  it  was  there.     Oddly  enough, 

she  had   never  loved   Senhouse  so  much  as  now, 

206 


A  "MODUS  VIVENDI"  207 

when  she  loved  somebody  else.  He  was  a  haven 
indeed;  she  felt  that  it  would  be  almost  worth  while 
to  suffer  some  grievous  anguish  for  the  comfort  she 
would  get  out  of  this  splendid  friend,  who  knew  every- 
thing without  being  told,  and  who  (she  knew)  asked 
nothing  better  than  to  help  her.  When  he  had 
asked  her  for  a  promise — to  send  for  him  at  need — 
there  had  been  no  occasion  whatever  to  hesitate. 
She  had  hesitated  because  it  was  joy  to  her  to  play 
with  the  doubt — which  was  no  doubt — should  she 
or  should  she  not?  And  then  she  had  kissed  him 
very  simply,  because  she  knew  that  it  would  make 
him  happy,  and  to  reward  him  for  having  been  teased. 
Yes,  he  was  a  possession ;  she  felt  the  riches  of  him, 
safely  funded  in  her  heart. 

But  Ingram,  Nevile  Ingram  —  ah,  that  was  a 
different  thing!  Analysing  herself  as  she  travelled 
homeward,  alone  in  a  railway  carriage  full  of 
people,  she  found  that  Nevile  Ingram,  like  a  rising 
tide,  had  slowly  lipped  his  way  up  and  upwards  in 
her  heart;  and  then,  when  her  heart  was  brimming 
with  him,  with  a  level  onrush  he  had  flowed  into 
all  the  creeks  and  channels  of  her  being,  until  now 
she  seemed  filled  with  him — filled  to  her  finger- 
and  toe-tips.  She  needed  not  to  picture  him — 
level-eyed,  bronzed,  alert,  and  sharp-chinned;  the 
mere  feel  of  him  permeating  her  was  almost  in- 
tolerable pride.  Without  visualising,  she  could 
know  what  his  eyes  demanded  of  her;  without  re- 
calling it,  she  could  tell  what  his  nearness  meant, 
and  why  she  had  thrilled  at  the  brush  of  his  hand 


2o8  OPEN  COUNTRY 

in  the  pages  of  the  dictionary,  or  the  strength  of 
his  arm  when,  leaning  over  the  book,  her  bosom 
touched  it.  She  brooded  tenderly  over  his  plain, 
unvoiced  desire.  He  loved  her,  he  needed  her;  she 
had  found  favour;  she  knew  it  because  he  had  not 
looked  at  her  that  night,  but  had  spoken  hardly, 
and  had  left  her  sitting  there  alone.  Analysing, 
she  felt  the  difference  between  Senhouse  and  In- 
gram. One  was  a  beacon  into  port;  the  other 
dazzled  her  and  made  her  faint. 

She  put  it  this  way,  loving  to  be  exact.  Suppose 
she  went  with  mamma  to  an  evening  party.  They 
go  upstairs,  shake  hands,  pass  into  the  room.  There 
will  be  a  sprinkling  of  people — women  on  settees, 
men  stooping  over  them,  talking;  perhaps  a  tall 
woman  by  the  window,  and  two  men  talking  to  her. 
The  eye  sweeps  all  this  up,  and  presently  lights  upon 
Senhouse,  standing  near  the  fireplace,  hands  in 
pockets,  eyes  piercing  the  opposite  wall,  vehemently 
declaiming  some  wild  doctrine  or  another  which 
might  make  you  laugh  if  it  didn't  make  you  want  to 
cry.  Well,  her  heart  would  rise  at  the  sight;  she 
would  say  to  herself,  ''Hurrah!  Jack's  here." 
And  she  would  watch  him  with  delight,  quietly  en- 
joying him,  and  wait  her  turn,  well  knowing  he  would 
come  directly  to  her  the  moment  he  saw  her.  And 
if  anybody  else  were  introduced  to  her,  or  obtruded 
himself,  it  would  be  a  bore  because  it  might  keep 
Jack  Senhouse  away.  But  if  Ingram,  Nevile  In- 
gram, were  there,  she  would  know  it  before  she  got 
upstairs.     She  would  never  look  for  him  about  the 


A  "MODUS   VIVENDI" 


209 


room;  she  wouldn't  be  able  to  see  properly  any  one 
in  it.  She  would  stand  still  and  stupid,  and  feel 
her  heart  beating,  and  be  quite  vague  in  her  answers, 
and  in  a  stare.  And  then  she  would  feel  him  com- 
ing, and  wait — and  it  would  hurt,  yes,  hurt  her, 
that  suspense,  and  yet  be  delicious.  That  was  the 
difference,  exactly,  between  them. 

And  now  there  was  to  be  a  meeting  for  explana- 
tion; and  she  neither  knew  nor  cared  what  the  ex- 
planation was  to  be.  Her  only  feeling  was  one  of 
high  excitement.  Her  heart  jumped  whenever  she 
phrased  it.  A  meeting  for  explanation.  In  twent}^- 
four  hours,  in  sixteen,  in  twelve — who  knew?  he 
would  come  deliberately  to  explain  himself.  Nor 
when  she  was  at  home  again,  and  mamma,  with 
unusual  demonstrativeness,  had  met  her  in  the  hall, 
enfolded  her,  and  proclaimed  her  strangely  her  dar- 
ling; nor  when  her  father  had  been — with  equal 
strangeness — constrained  and  fidgety  in  her  society; 
nor  even  when  Vicky,  having  taken  her  upstairs, 
shut  the  door,  locked  it,  sat  on  the  bed,  folded  her 
arms  and  said  with  a  snapping  close,  "Well,  he's 
married" — not  even  then  had  she  felt  the  least  bit 
dismayed.  He  was  coming  to  explain — in  twenty- 
four  hours,  in  sixteen,  twelve,  at  any  minute.  She 
phrased  it  and  her  heart  jumped  like  a  trout. 

But  Vicky  was  astonished.  "Who's  married?" 
Sancie  had  asked. 

"Who,  my  dear!  Why,  your  Nevile  Ingram,  of 
course." 


2IO  OPEN  COUNTRY 

It  is  perfectly  true  that  this  news  surprised  with- 
out shocking  her.  Her  affair  lay  in  the  realm  of 
pure  idyll.  She  saw  no  connection  between  love  and 
marriage. 

"Is  he?"  she  asked.  "He  never  told  me.  When 
was  it?" 

Vicky  was  slightly  damped.  "Oh,  ages  ago,  of 
course.     Years  ago." 

Sanchia  moved  about  the  room,  finding  her 
things.  "I  expect  he  forgot  to  tell  me.  Do  you 
like  her?    What's  she  like?"     Vicky  drooped. 

"I  haven't  the  least  idea.  Of  course  she's  not 
about.     She  lives  in  Sicily  and  is  a  bad  lot." 

You  could  never  get  a  rise  out  of  Sancie;  one 
might  have  known  that  before.  She  said  now, 
half  turning  from  the  glass  so  that  you  saw  one  open 
eye  and  arched  eyebrow  within  the  crook  of  her  arm, 
"Is  she?  How  sickening  for  Mr.  Ingram."  It 
was  no  use  saying  any  more — but  she  said  a  little. 

"Mamma  says  we  ought  to  be  kind  to  him  be- 
cause he's  unhappy.  She  talks  about  being  sisters. 
I  hope  you  like  the  prospect." 

"I  do  rather,"  Sancie  said,  hair-pins  in  her  mouth. 
Then  Vicky  owned   herself   beaten,  and  was  silent. 

The  explanation  had  to  be  waited  for.  Ingram 
did  not  come  to  Great  Cumberland  Place  for  two 
or  three  days,  and  when  he  did  come  it  was  at  tea- 
time  when  there  were  quite  a  number  of  people  there. 
He  only  stayed  half  an  hour,  and  talked  chiefly  to 
Mrs.  Percival  about  the  Fitz-Urses,  whom  he  knew. 


A   "MODUS  VIVENDI"  211 

it  appeared,  well.  They  were  very  recent  acquaint- 
ances of  Mrs.  Percival's;  she  found  them  charming. 
Lady  Fitz-Urse  was,  she  thought,  a  strikingly  ele- 
gant woman.  Ingram  allowed  her  a  good  dress- 
maker. 

He  was,  however,  quite  at  his  ease,  and  drew 
Sanchia  into  the  conversation  in  the  most  natural 
way  in  the  world.  He  chaffed  her  about  Dante  or 
some  one  of  the  sort,  and  included  himself  in  the 
mockery.  ''Since  you've  been  away,  you  know, 
I've  not  opened  him  once.  Oh  yes,  beg  pardon! 
I  have.  I  got  him  down  to  look  up  something  or 
other — I  forget  what — and  found  this  document." 
He  produced  a  slip  of  paper,  opened  and  read  it. 
'''Don't  forget:  second  person  singular  ends  in  i 
—  always;  second  person  plural  in  e  —  always. 
S.J. P.'  Do  you  remember  that?"  he  asked  her. 
She  glowed  and  smiled.  Of  course  she  remem- 
bered it. 

"You  see  the  force  of  fellowship  and  strife,"  he 
went  on  drily — entirely  for  Mrs.  Percival's  educa- 
tion— "Unless  you're  there  to  be  scored  off  I  don't 
read  poetry.  Therefore  my  immortal  part  suffers 
anyhow.  If  you're  reading  with  me  the  Enemy  in- 
spires me  to  emulation;  if  you're  not  there  I  get  no 
poetry.  So  I'm  doomed  to  go  wrong  anyhow. 
That's  hard  lines,  isn't  it?" 

"Very  sad,"  said  Mrs.  Pcrcival,  conscious  that 
all  this  was  pleasant.  "But  I  think  Poetry  will,  in 
time,  influence  you  for  good." 

"One  hopes  so,  of  course,  and  one  perseveres," 


212  OPEN  COUNTRY 

said  Ingram;  ''but  Pegasus  is  a  wayward  mount. 
Now,  Turniptop,  my  new  pony,  is  a  daisy.  Knows 
the  game  better  than  I  do.  How  would  it  be,  by 
the  way,  if  you  came  and  were  introduced  to  him  to- 
morrow?" 

Mrs.  Percival  said  she  should  be  charmed.  He 
turned  to  Sanchia.  "D'you  care  to  come  too? 
I'm  bossing  the  Go-Betweens  to-morrow.  We  play 
the  Gunners.  It's  rather  a  great  occasion  in  its  little 
way."  He  always  deprecated  his  deeds  when  they 
were  beyond  cavil  good.     He  was  famous  at  polo. 

Mrs.  Percival  promised  for  Sanchia,  and  took 
her.     It  was  a  fine  afternoon. 

There  was  no  doubt  at  all  about  Ingram  on 
horseback;  he  rode  like  a  centaur.  Inspired  by 
the  daemon  of  the  strife,  there  was  a  fierce  decisive- 
ness about  the  young  man  which  made  him  seem 
really  great.  He  saw  everything,  shouted  his  com- 
mands, and  was  obeyed  by  his  wheeling  field;  be- 
fore his  stooping  on-rush  Gunners  swerved  and 
missed.  Twice  he  ran  clean  through  the  field,  ir- 
resistible, like  an  Angel  of  battle,  like  a  Walkyr. 
Sanchia  sat  at  gaze  with  swelling  heart.  Glory  of 
battle!  Glory  of  conquest!  At  this  moment  the 
eloquence  of  Senhouse,  though  clearly  breathed 
through  him  by  God,  had  availed  him  little. 

Flushed,  triumphant,  masterful  yet  easy,  he  had 
stood  before  her  a  moment  in  his  long  overcoat, 
the  sweat  and  dust  of  conflict  still  shining  on  his 
face.  "  Good  game,  eh  ?  Good  as  Dante  in  its  way. 
Glad  you  liked   it.     Eh?    Oh,  no,  I'm  no  better 


A   "MODUS  VIVENDI"  213 

than  the  rest.  Had  more  luck — and  a  wonderful 
mount."  That  was  all  he  had  for  her  at  the  mo- 
ment. But  he  returned  anon,  new-groomed,  curled, 
and  anointed,  bringing  a  friend  with  him,  a  Colonel 
Wybrow,  whom  he  presented  to  Mrs.  Percival; 
then  said  lightly  to  Sanchia,  ''Come  and  be  intro- 
duced to  Turniptop."  She  understood  that  her 
time  was  at  hand. 

He  led  her  to  the  trees  without  a  word,  threw  a 
coat  on  the  grass,  and  said,  "Let's  sit  and  have 
it  out."  She  sat,  obedient,  and  he,  very  deliberately 
by  her,  pulled  his  trousers  free  at  his  knees,  tilted 
his  hat  back,  clasped  his  hands  across  his  shins, 
looked  at  her  narrowly,  and  began. 

"Do  you  know  why  I  bolted  that  night  at  the 
Chevenixes'?" 

She  told  him  simply  that  she  did  not. 

"Then  I'll  tell  you  in  so  many  words,"  he  said. 
"I  left  you  because  I  was  getting  too  fond  of  you, 
and  I  knew  it  wouldn't  do." 

There  was  nothing  to  say.  He  continued  quer- 
ulously. 

"When  I  came  of  age,  the  very  first  thing  I  did 
should  have  been  the  last  thing.  I  fell  in  love  with 
a  pretty  girl,  and  married  her  in  a  month.  Claire 
Pierpoint  she  was — and  I  can't  say  anything  about 
her  except  this:  she  left  me,  of  her  own  accord,  on 
my  twenty-second  birthday,  and  I've  never  seen  her 
since.  The  less  said  the  better:  I'll  leave  it  at 
that.  .  .  ,  Now,  of  course,  there  were  things  I  could 
have  done.    I  could  have  got  a  divorce  all  right: 


214  OPEN   COUNTRY 

no  trouble  about  that.  But  I  didn't — and  I  shan't. 
I  owe  her  nothing  that  I  can  see,  nothing  at  all — 
and  yet,  you  know,  I  owe  myself  something.  Be- 
cause I  made  a  dire  fool  of  myself  nine  years  ago, 
or  whatever  it  was,  I  couldn't  mend  matters  by 
making  an  exhibition  of  myself  before  all  London 
— and  I  certainly  can't  do  it  now.  It's  too  late,  to 
begin  with,  and —  Anyhow,  the  less  said  about 
such  things  the  better — I'm  sure  you  agree.  Very 
well.  .  .  ." 

She  listened  stilly  so  far,  her  eyes  ranging  the 
dotted  field;  but  now,  at  his  ''very  well,"  she  turned 
her  looks  to  his  face,  and  waited  for  what  was  to 
come.  There  was  no  disguise  about  her;  she  was 
very  serious.  Nor  did  she  turn  her  eyes  from  him 
while  he  told  her  the  truth. 

**I  thought — when  I'd  got  over  the  first  shock  of 
the  thing — that  I  could  get  along  all  right  by  my- 
self. Mind  you,  I'd  been  mad  about  her — you  can 
see  that.  One  doesn't  romp  into  marriage  in  a 
month  unless  one  is  pretty  far  gone.  But  that  year 
had  been  enough  for  me,  I  can  assure  you.  Ghastly! 
Oh,  ghastly!  I  told  myself  that  I  had  learned  my 
lesson,  and  could  get  more  solid  comfort  out  of  the 
world  before  me  than  out  of  any  wedded  joys,  as  I  had 
found  them.  So  I  went  gaily  off  on  my  travels — and 
had  eight  years  of  it .  Then  I  came  back,  and  saw  you . ' ' 

Even  then  she  didn't  waver.  She  still  absorbed 
him — his  tanned  face,  his  blue  eyes,  narrowed  down 
intensely,  his  moustache,  curled  back  to  show  his 
lip,  his  sharply-angled  chin. 


A  "MODUS  VIVENDI"  215 

"You  opened  my  eyes  to  a  world  that  all  my 
travels  hadn't  shown  me.  You  gave  me  glimpses 
of  a  life  I'd  never  heard  of  before.  Hopes!  I  be- 
gan to  have  hopes — even  of  myself.  Sordid,  spotted, 
powder-grimed,  blood-spattered  rascal  that  I  was, 
I  had  gleams  of  myself — clean,  sweetened,  charita- 
ble-minded— oh,  I  can't  explain  it  all.  It  was  like 
straying  into  a  Cathedral  in  the  dusk,  and  seeing 
the  candles  ahead  of  you,  and  hearing  a  boy  sing, 
'Oh,  for  the  wings  of  a  dove.'  .  .  .  What  do  these 
things  mean  to  a  chap  like  me?  You  can't  tell — 
and  I  can't  tell  you.  You've  got  to  live  as  I've 
lived  before  you  can  guess;  and  you'll  never  do 
that,  Sancie,  if  you  live  to  be  a  thousand.  .  .  . 
Now,  do  you  wonder  if  I  came  to  Great  Cumber- 
land Place — and  came  again — and  again — and  as 
often  as  you'd  have  me?  I  can  see  that  you  don't 
wonder — nor  would  anybody — not  even  that  ass, 
Bill  Chevenix,  who  seems  to  think  that  because  a 
man  is  married  he  can't  have  the  society  of  good 
women.  At  that  rate  a  good  many  of  us  will  have 
to  go  to  the  devil,  it  seems  to  me." 

He  took  his  eyes  from  hers,  and  stuck  his  face 
between  his  hands.  There  was  a  pulsing,  vibrating 
silence,  until  Sanchia's  hand  touched  one  of  his, 
and  he  looked  at  her  again  and  saw  what  he  saw. 

He  groaned  and  turned  away.  ''Oh,  Sancie, 
Sancie,  don't — for  God's  sake!" 

Presently  he  resumed,  having  conquered  him- 
self. "I  left  you  that  night  because  I  had  begun 
to  feel  that  I  couldn't  do  without  you.     I  don't 


2i6  OPEN  COUNTRY 

know  how  I  got  through  the  first  day  or  two — I 
don't,  upon  my  soul;  but  I've  done  it,  thank  the 
Lord,  and  now  I'm  all  right  again.  That  being 
so,  I've  got  a  proposition  to  make  to  you.  I  sup- 
pose you  know  that  I  respect  you  above  all  people 
dead  or  alive — that  I  wouldn't  hurt  a  hair  of  your 
head.  That  you  must  know.  So  I'm  going  to  ask 
you  not  to  send  me  to  the  devil.     Don't  do  that." 

He  looked  up  at  her  and  saw  her  face  fixed,  her 
eyes  dewy,  a  smile  on  her  lips  of  pity  for  his  foolish- 
ness. That  he  should  need  to  ask  her  to  be  gener- 
ous! At  that  moment  there  was  nothing  she  could 
have  refused  him.  He  nodded  and  smiled  his 
understanding,  touched,  but  did  not  take,  to  keep, 
the  hand  she  held  out  to  him.  He  laid  his  upon  it 
for  a  moment,  then  resumed  his  clasp  of  his  shins. 
"I've  had  it  out  with  your  people.  I  said  to  'em, 
'Let  me  come  and  go  like  any  other  chap  about  the 
house.  Make  a  friend  of  me  if  I'm  worth  it — let  me 
make  friends  of  you,  anyhow,'  They  were  awfully 
good  about  it.  I  like  your  old  governor:  a  good 
sort.  There's  to  be  no  humbug,  you  know.  Just 
companionship,  a  dinner  now  and  again,  or  this  sort 
of  beanfeast,  or  a  cup  of  tea,  or  a  theatre  or  so.  That 
will  keep  my  head  above  water — just.  And  now 
I'm  going  to  ask  the  same  thing  of  you.  Don't  cast 
me  off  either.  Don't  think,  because  you  know 
what's  the  matter  with  me,  that  I'm  going  to  be  a 
blackguard.  Don't  think,  because  I'm  married, 
that  poetry's  no  good  to  the  likes  of  me.  I  tell  you, 
it's  all  the  world.    I  tell  you  I  shall  grow  to  be  a 


A  "MODUS  VIVENDI"  217 

man — and  have  a  mind  one  of  these  days — a  mind! 
I  don't  say  I  shall  ever  be  like  your  friend  the  Gentle- 
man-Gipsy— no,  no.  I'm  no  artist,  and  I  still  go 
on  shooting  birds  and  hunting  foxes.  You  see,  I 
was  brought  up  to  it.  But  I'm  growing,  I  feel  I'm 
growing;  and  if  you'll  make  a  bargain,  Sancie, 
there's  my  hand  on  it." 

He  was  ready  for  it  now.  She  gave  him  her 
hand  for  this  serious  moment.  She  was  inspired, 
her  heart  like  to  burst.  Very  creditably,  he  broke 
off  into  nonsense. 

''That's  all  right!  By  Gad,  what  a  lot  I've 
talked.  Who'd  have  thought  the  young  man  had 
so  much  blood  in  him?  Shakespeare!  I  say,  may 
I  smoke  a  cigar?  It'll  cool  me  down,  you  know. 
Have  you  had  tea?  You  haven't!  What  a  brute 
I've  been.  Oh,  don't  tell  me  you  don't  want  any 
tea.  A  woman  would  want  tea  on  the  Day  of  Judg- 
ment. I  know  as  much  of  your  sex  as  that,  though 
I'm  by  no  means  a  learned  Johnny.  Come  on — 
let's  go  and  forage  for  tea."  She  fell  into  his  humour; 
and,  thinking  of  it  afterwards,  she  believed  that  she 
loved  him  more  for  this  wild  chatter  than  for  all  his 
seriousness.  She  could  see  the  effort  behind  it,  and 
respect  it. 

Thus  did  Mr.  Ingram  for  himself,  greatly.  He 
had  counted,  not  in  vain,  upon  the  loyalty  of  women, 
and  had  reckoned  that  not  Mrs.  Percival  alone  would 
be  loyal  to  the  Idea.  It  shall  be  recorded  to  his 
credit  that  he,  too,  was  mainly  loyal  to  it.     He  was 


2i8  OPEN   COUNTRY 

studiously  off-hand,  cool  and  guarded.  If  he  made 
himself  out  to  be  blacker  than  he  was,  one  can  hardly 
blame  him.  That  was  so  plainly  his  line  of  country. 
Sanchia  was  so  plainly  to  be  his  guardian  angel. 

She  took  her  duties  seriously,  dedicated  herself 
to  them  in  her  prayers.  Divine  pity  took  the  place 
of  divine  wonder.  If  she  loved  him  now  she  didn't 
know  it,  and  would  have  died  sooner  than  admit  it 
to  herself. 

Atop  of  all  this  she  received  a  letter  from  Sen- 
house,  to  which  I  devote  a  chapter.  It  clinched 
her  matter. 


CHAPTER  XIX 

SENHOUSE  FROM  MOSEDALE.      THE  WOMAN'S   ART 

My  friend's  letters  to  his  Beloved,  all  of  which  are 
before  me,  alter  unmistakably  from  the  date  of  the 
Gorston  visit — the  second  Gorston  visit.  The  change 
is  subtle,  but  it  is  there.  They  are  no  less  ardent,  ex- 
plore no  less  the  circumjacent  universe;  but  they 
seem  not  so  confident,  they  have  the  air  of  one  who 
talks  aloud  in  the  dark  to  provide  himself  with  as- 
surance of  a  human  note.  It  is  not  that  he  loves  her 
now,  or  that  he  is  telling  her  so  now :  that  must  have 
been  obvious  to  her  from  the  beginning.  Nor  is  it, 
on  the  other  hand,  that  she  loves  him  now.  Far 
from  that,  unhappy  one,  he  knows  pretty  certainly 
that  she  does  not.  He  never  assumes  it,  nor  seems 
concerned  whether  she  does  or  doesn't.  It  is,  rather, 
that  she  knows  of  his  love  for  her,  and  he  of  her 
knowledge  of  it.  He  exults  in  his  naked  soul,  dallies 
with  the  fact  of  confession,  revels  in  the  wild  pros- 
pects thrown  open  to  him  by  that,  and  (as  will  be 
seen)  is  tempted  further,  and  (for  a  moment)  yields. 
He  recovers  himself  almost  at  once,  and  by  a  fine 
effort  takes  over  the  command  again.  But  I  antici- 
pate, in  saying  so  much,  what  I  have  now  to  cite. 
The  following  letter  is  dated  '^Mosedale,  5th  June," 

and  is  the  first  he  wrote  her,  or  at  any  rate  posted 

219 


2  20  OPEN  COUNTRY 

to  her,  after  his  Gorston  farewell.  Mosedale  is  the 
"green  valley  in  Wastdale,"  which  was  one  of  his 
chosen  camping-grounds.  He  had  a  wild  garden 
there  upon  the  shoulders  of  the  mountains,  by  which 
it  is  kept  inviolate: — 

Mosedale,  $th  June. 
The  land  laughs,  but  not  so  loud  as  I — nor  so 
long.  All  about  Black  Sail  the  white  mist-wreaths 
stream  and  fly;  but  not  so  fast,  driven  by  the  west 
wind,  as  my  thoughts,  which  my  heart-beats  urge. 
Mosedale  Beck  is  in  foaming  fettle,  and  some 
Primula  japonica,  which  I  sowed  there  last  year, 
are  a  cloud  of  crimson,  coral,  and  salmon-pink, 
floating  (as  meseemeth)  over  a  bed  of  lettuce-green. 
There's  a  palette!  The  sun  strikes  all  this  blaze  of 
colour,  and  you  think  of  Van  Eyck's  "Adoration  of 
the  Lamb" — or  you  would  if  you  were  here.  And 
you  are  here,  my  Blessed  One,  as  you  are  everywhere 
with  me.  A  pillar  of  fire  by  night,  of  white  cloud 
by  day,  in  the  glow  of  the  fire,  in  the  gleam  of  the 
cloud  I  see  your  holy  face;  and  as  the  brook  mur- 
murs its  content  with  things  as  they  are  I  hear  your 
low  clear  tones  call  me  by  my  names  of  friend, 
brother — ah,  no  more  of  that!  Let  me  remember 
how  good  it  is  to  be  alive  on  such  a  golden  morning. 

Now  bloom  white  violets,  now  daffodils, 
And  on  the  windy  uplands  lilies  blow; 
Now  breaks  to  flower  my  Flower,  and  fulfils 
Valley  and  hillside  with  her  rosy  glow. 
Meadows,  in  vain  you  laugh  your  idle  grace! 
What  have  ye  that  she  hath  not  in  her  face? 


SENHOUSE  FROM  MOSEDALE  221 

A  long  way  after  Meleager;   but  he  never  sang  his 
7]8t]  \evKoLov  OdWet  more  stoutly  than  I  my  jingle. 

Why  do  lovers  howl  and  rend  their  garments 
when  they  are  parted  ?  There's  that  same  Meleager, 
almost  in  the  same  breath,  wailing  apiraa-TaLl  "  She's 
been  taken  from  me,"  he  raves ;  "what  beast  could  be 
so  cruel?"  All  because  poor  dear  Heliodora  went 
back  to  town,  to  be  taken  out  to  parties  by  her 
mamma,  to  have  gilded  youths  about  her  in  Hyde 
Park,  and  quite  a  swarm  of  them  buzzing  over  her 
dance-card,  and  scribbling  their  initials  all  over  it, 
with  little  white  pencils  held  most  uncomfortably 
in  little  white  kids.  You  see,  I  know  all  about  it, 
and  ain't  jealous.  No,  no;  I  leave  that  to  the  God 
of  Moses  and  other  uneasy  despots — potentates  who 
have  such  a  high  opinion  of  themselves  that  they 
are  forced  to  have  low  ones  of  their  ladies.  I  pro- 
test, by  the  light  I  have,  that  it  isn't  at  all  necessary 
for  me  to  see  you,  though  extremely  so  that  I  should 
love  you,  and  have  what  I  have.  Why,  what  should 
I  do  with  you  that  I  have  not  done  better  already! 
Watch  you,  touch  your  hand  in  a  crowd,  edge  up 
with  Apollo  and  brisk  Mr.  Daftrey  to  take  you  out 
a-dancing?  No,  by  Hercules,  but  I  do  better  with 
you  here.  I  see  you,  feel  your  nearness,  know  you 
thrilling  in  the  dusk.  "Thou  and  I,  sphered  in 
solitude" — thou  and  I!  And  that's  better  than  to 
spy  after  you  in  the  Park;  and  as  for  dancing — why, 
you  are  dancing  with  the  daffodils  here  in  Mose- 
dale,  and  I  play  the  tune  on  my  pipe,  like  Daphnis 
or  some  other  son  of  Pan.     Let  Apollo  caper  in 


222  OPEN  COUNTRY 

Grosvenor  Square  and  steer  you  in  and  out  of  the 
throng;  your  soul,  my  soul,  is  here  with  me,  treading 
the  Galaxy  in  a  dance  to  no  mortal  music.  How 
am  I  to  condescend  to  trivial  intercourse  with  you 
who  have  given  me  of  your  heart's  communion? 
Never,  never,  never.  You  and  I  have  done  im- 
perishably.  I  surrender  to  your  Dartreys  and  Polsch- 
kins  your  temporary  dwelling-place,  much  too  good 
for  them  though  it  be.* 

That's  the  kind  of  lover  you  have.  Queen  Mab, 
for  so  you  have  made  him.  He  is  very  well  content 
that  you  should  let  your  light  shine  on  herded  Lon- 
don; though  the  light  shine  in  darkness  and  the 
darkness  comprehend  it  not.  Here  and  there  will 
be  one  who  will  be  able  to  walk  in  your  beam. 
Dia  Artemis,  I  praise  the  gods  of  the  country  for 
what  I  have  of  you. 

I  am  very  well  content,  I  say,  to  plod  my  country 
ways  and  know  you  wielding  your  spells  in  town. 
A  great  power  is  in  your  thin  sweet  hands,  my 
sweet;  you  are  in  the  way  of  being  a  great  artist.  If 
I  take  a  professional  view  of  your  life  and  conversa- 
tion you  mustn't  blame  me;  for,  botcher  though  I 
may  be,  I'm  an  artist  myself,  or  no  lover.  And 
perhaps  you  remember  how  we  talked  about  Art  in 
the  park,  under  the  golden  oaks,  and  how  you  re- 
pined at  having  to  give  up  your  hopes  of  a  studio; 

'This  should  have  caused  Sanchia  a  pang — this  belated  utter- 
ance. Poor  M.  Polschkin  had  been  dismissed  to  his  piano,  and 
forgotten  long  ago.  And  who  is  Mr.  Dartrey?  I  know  nothing 
about  him. 


SENHOUSE   FROM  MOSEDALE 


223 


and  how  I  told  you  that  painting  wasn't  the  woman's 
art,  nor  sculpture  neither,  nor  poetry  neither.  Do 
you? 

Well,  I  stick  to  that.  Rosa  Bonheur  wore  trou- 
sers, but  couldn't  paint  any  the  better.  Good  soul, 
she  was  no  Rubens.  George  Eliot  played  the 
Tenth  Muse  in  St.  John's  Wood  Road,  or  some- 
where of  the  sort,  and  had  a  humour  of  her  own  for 
which  she  had  to  pay — as  none  knew  better  than 
she.  Aurora  Leigh  wrote  verses,  and  her  great  old 
burning  lover  smothered  her  with  incense,  but  didn't 
make  a  poet  of  her  for  all  that.  He  simply  proved 
what  an  artist  she  was  in  her  own  art — which  no 
man  can  touch.  There's  man's  art,  you  know,  and 
woman's  art;  and  though  I  love  every  stroke  of 
your  brush,  and  know  how  sensitive  it  is,  and  how 
patient,  yet  I  see  you  an  immortal  artist  without  any 
brushes  at  all,  in  a  stuff  more  subtle  than  paint,  more 
shining  than  Pheidias's  ivory  and  gold ;  and  I  see  the 
crowd  before  your  masterpiece  hushed  and  still. 
Some  of  them  cover  their  eyes  and  others  say  their 
prayers,  and  others  laugh  for  mere  joy  of  great  work. 
What  do  you  say  to  that,  little  artist?  Isn't  that 
an  art  worth  your  pains  ? 

It's  an  art  so  difficult,  to  be  worked  at  under 
conditions  so  confusing,  that  it's  only  one  woman 
in  a  thousand  can  succeed  in  it.  Charm,  as  with 
all  arts,  is  at  the  bottom  of  it;  I  fear  it  must  be 
owned,  too,  that  persuasion  is  an  essential.  But, 
like  every  great  form  of  Art,  yours  is  didactic.  It 
teaches  involuntarily  virtue,  temperance  and  holi- 


224  OPEN  COUNTRY 

ness.  Men  and  women  come  and  behold  it,  and 
go  their  ways  the  better  for  having  seen  it,  the  richer 
for  the  experience,  and  the  cleaner  for  purged  emo- 
tions; or,  it  may  be,  fired  by  its  excellence  to  a  gen- 
erous rivalry,  themselves  to  work  for  such  high 
ends.  What  can  be  better?  If  you  can  so  work 
upon  your  own  delicate  surface  as  to  mould  it  close 
to  your  noble  soul,  and  impress  it  with  your  own 
quality;  if  in  the  gallery  of  the  world  you  can  un- 
veil yourself  for  a  thousand  pair  of  eyes  to  see,  and 
praise  God  for  the  grace  to  see — why,  what  an  artist 
you  are,  and  what  an  audience  you  have!  No 
painter  since  this  world  began  to  spin  had  such  a  one, 
no  musician,  no  church-builder.  Christopher  Wren, 
you  may  think,  had  a  greater,  thronging  his  great 
dome  on  the  hill ;  but  I  tell  you  no.  For  you,  as  you 
go  your  ways  about  the  city,  will  every  day  pass 
more  people  than  Paul's  would  hold,  and  need  not 
pass  one  but  will  go  on  his  road,  unknowingly,  the 
better  for  the  moment's  nearness  to  you.  Like  a 
whiff  of  thyme  on  a  grassy  down,  like  the  breath  of 
violets  from  a  bank,  or  of  bean-flowers  blown  across 
a  dusty  hedge,  some  gentle  exhalation  of  your  soul 
sighed  through  your  body  will  hint  to  the  passion- 
driven  wretch  things  innocent  and  quiet.  The  blue 
beam  of  your  steadfast  eyes  may  turn  his  own  to 
heaven;  a  chance-caught,  low,  sweet  tone  of  your 
voice  may  check  clamour;  an  answer  turn  his  wrath; 
the  mere  hang  of  your  clothes,  so  nearly  will  they 
express  your  nature,  may  send  him  on  his  way  hope- 
ful and   renewed.     You   can't   know — it's  none  of 


SENHOUSE  FROM  MOSEDALE  225 

your  affair — how  or  to  what  end  your  art  will  tell. 
All  your  business  as  artist  is  to  work  perfectly,  to  have 
the  vision  and  to  get  it  down. 

And  what  a  material  to  work  with — fine,  moving, 
breathing,  quick-fluttering  flesh!  Infinitely  more 
elastic  than  painter's  stuff;  warm,  tinged  with  life, 
instinct  with  it;  rhythmic,  eloquent.  You  can  be 
picture,  form,  poem,  symphony  in  one.  You  ad- 
dress the  mind  through  every  sense.  Every  ges- 
ture is  charged,  every  throb  can  express,  every  word 
be  a  phrase,  every  look  a  tone!  Think  of  it,  San- 
chia,  before  you  turn  away.  Think  well  whether 
upon  that  exquisite  medium  you  cannot  impress 
your  best. 

As  I  write,  I  fire  from  within,  and  see  a  vision 
of  a  Woman  to  whom  a  whole  world  might  bow 
down.  It's  not  for  most  women;  I  think  it's  for 
very  few;  but  there's  no  doubt  about  its  possibility. 
It's  no  harder  for  a  w^oman  to  make  herself  a  work 
of  supreme  art  than  for  a  man  to  paint  a  "Las 
Menirias"  or  write  a  Pere  Goriot.  But  she  must  have 
a  genius  for  self-expression — and  you  have  it. 

The  Ideal,  since  men  first  looked  up  to  the  heights, 
has  always  been  in  the  shape  of  a  woman.  Sex  has 
much  to  do  with  that,  I  don't  doubt,  for  man  has 
been  the  maker,  and  has  always  dreamed  of  what 
he  can  never  be.  Athene  of  the  men  of  Attica, 
Artemis  of  the  Arcadians,  Mary  of  the  Christians 
— it  has  always  been  so.  The  holiest  thing  of  all, 
the   most   mysterious,    inaccessible,    has   worn    the 


226  OPEN  COUNTRY 

bounty  of  a  beautiful  woman,  and  God  has  spoken 
through  her  eyes.  Grey-blue  eyes,  ringed  with  dark, 
for  me.  A  slim  and  pliant  form.  A  face  of  pure 
oval  faintly  tinged  with  rose.  A  round  and  firm 
chin,  where  character  strikes  sharply  yet  gently. 
Pale  lips  drooping  at  the  corners  ever  so  little — for 
sympathy,  you  know.  That  proud  Greek  bow  is 
too  remote  from  our  labour  and  sorrow.  Broad 
brows  speaking  candour  and  charity  to  the  wise 
and  the  wayward  alike.  An  ardent  mind,  eager  for 
light;  a  habit  so  strong  to  purpose  and  action  that 
chastity  is  involved;  and  withal  a  glowing  heart 
which  love  will  one  day  blow  into  a  flame,  and  thus 
fulfil  the  woman  from  the  maid.^  Some  day, 
Sanchia,  some  day  the  woman  will  be  fulfilled  and 
the  work  done.  Then,  like  a  priest  who  has  con- 
versed with  mystery  and  been  face  to  face  with  the 
holiest,  I  shall  stand  up  before  the  people  on  their 
knees.  Ite,  missa  est,  I  shall  say — and  bid  the  boy 
blow  out  the  altar  candles. 

A  vision  of  life  indeed  rises  up,  and  lifts  me  after 
it.  The  shifts  I  am  at  to  make  my  own  little  world 
a  simple,  cleanly,  wholesome  place  drop  suddenly 
off  me  like  superfluous  clothes.  One  is  only  driven 
to  wear  them,  mark  you  well,  as  screens  against  the 
mire  and  bad  smells  of  modern  ways.  Where  the 
treasure  is  there  will  the  heart  be  also.  Nothing 
need  vex  him  who  has  the  treasure  in  his  heart. 
Life   turns   inwards,   and   keeps   out   the   cold — as 

'All  that  forms  a  portrait,  happy  and  exact,  of  Sanchia  Percival 
as  she  was  in  1894. 


SENHOUSE  FROM  MOSEDALE  227 

gipsies  turn  their  backs  to  the  weather  and  spread 
their  hands  to  the  crackhng  logs. 

Mine  is  a  lonely  way,  you  know,  and  often  I  am 
forced  to  bawl  my  song,  "The  jolly  life  I  lead," 
for  fear  I  should  hear  the  undercurrent  of  misgiv- 
ing, and  listen  for  nothing  else.  So,  like  Figaro,  I 
make  haste  to  laugh,  and  thus  continue  to  delude 
myself  till,  by  and  by,  the  mood  passes,  and  I  can 
look  up  at  the  stars  or  the  open  sky,  and  know  that 
I  am  in  tune  with  them.  That's  a  great  business 
of  ours,  I  assure  you,  to  make  a  harmony.  Listen 
to  the  music  of  the  spheres,  and  screw  up  to  the  pitch 
they  keep.  There's  our  art  for  the  conversion  of 
the  world.  For  we  all  aim  at  that — no  less;  and 
I  with  the  rest.  You  know  my  gospel  and  won't 
take  it  amiss  for  being  somewhat  musty.  Poverty, 
poverty,  poverty!  That's  the  cry,  if  you  would  be 
rich,  O  son  of  man.  But  now,  when  I  crave  the 
treasure  of  your  golden  heart,  my  saint,  and  sigh 
sometimes  that  I  may  have  to  go  without  it,  ain't  I 
the  very  inconsistent  poor  devil  I  complain  of  my 
next-door  neighbour  for  being?  Of  course  I  am. 
Yet — oh,  for  the  deep  draught  of  your  eyes  I  lately 
had!  Oh,  to  read  the  great  trust  in  your  long  gaze! 
Oh,  for  the  assurance  of  your  thrilled  voice,  and  oh, 
for  the  touch  of  your  lips  on  my  forehead! 

I'm  a  recreant,  I  see.     Farewell,  Sanchia. 

To  say  that  she  was  moved  by  this  perfervid  let- 
ter is  to  say  little.  She  was  inspired  by  it.  Its  ef- 
fect— the   effect   of   its   passionate   flattery — was   to 


228  OPEN  COUNTRY 

lift  her  nobly  to  an  eminence — as  it  were  some  bold 
promontory  in  a  clearer  air — whence,  with  a  heart 
full  of  pity,  she  could  behold  the  infirm  purposes 
of  men;  their  infirm  purposes  and  ignorant,  ig- 
noble strivings.  As  she  stood  there,  folding  close 
her  wings,  for  fear  she  might  soar  out  of  range,  she 
pondered  mankind,  infinitely  compassionate.  Some 
such  effect  upon  her  her  friend's  letters  always  pro- 
duced, some  such  lifting,  inspiring  effect;  but  now, 
when  her  heart  was  hardly  her  own,  the  exaltation 
was  shared;  trailing  in  the  wake  of  her  beating 
wings  came  Ingram,  the  bruised,  the  world-begrimed 
■Ingram:  and  she  loved  him !  and  he  loved  her !  And 
she  could  exercise  upon  him  her  "Woman's  Art." 

Was  it,  then,  her  work  in  the  world  to  be  lustral 
water,  to  pour  herself  out,  that  he  might  wash  and 
be  made  whole?  Was  she  to  be  an  Influence? 
Could  she  act  so  upon  that  self-accusing,  dumbly- 
struggling,  tortured  young  hero  of  Hurlingham? 
Here  she  sought  in  her  bosom  for  her  letter,  and 
read  and  re-read  some  passages: — 

^'Like  a  whiff  of  thyme  on  a  grassy  down,  like  the 
breath  of  violets  frojn  a  bank,  .  .  .  some  gentle  ex- 
halation of  your  soul  sighed  through  your  body  will 
hint  to  the  passion-driven  wretch  things  innocent  and 
quiet. ^^ 

If  this  were  true — or  half  true — could  there  be 

* 

any  question  whether  she  should  save  Nevile  In- 
gram's soul  alive? 

"  The  blue  beam  of  your  steadfast  eyes  may  turn 
his  own  to  heaven;   a  chance-caught,  low,  sweet  tone 


SENHOUSE  FROM  MOSEDALE  229 

of  your  voice  may  check  clamour;  an  answer  turn  his 
wrath;  tJte  mere  hang  of  your  clothes,  so  nearly  will 
they  express  your  nature,  may  send  hhn  on  his  way 
hopeful  and  renewed. ^^ 

Hopeful  and  renewed!  Was  this  her  work  in 
the  world?  Could  this  be  true,  or  even  half  true? 
And  did  it  make  any  difference,  or  vitiate  her  argu- 
ment, that  she  trembled  with  the  hope  that  it  might 
be  true? 

She  had  to  ponder  these  things  within  herself. 
No  one  could  help  her — save  one.  And  he  was  in 
Mosedale. 

The  irony  of  the  situation  in  his  regard  will  not 
be  lost  upon  the  reader.  Senhouse  himself,  a  keen 
humourist,  had  he  known  that  his  adoring  praises 
were  to  be  turned  to  the  service  of  another  man, 
could  not  have  forborne  a  smile.  It  would  have 
been  awry;  but  he  would  have  realised  the  shrewd- 
ness of  the  hit.  Indeed,  he  did,  since  it  was  his 
destiny  to  have  it  aimed.  In  her  perplexity  she 
wrote  to  him. 

She  said  very  little ;  but  he  was  accustomed  to  read 
between  the  lines  of  her  stiff  and  wary  letters.  He 
used  to  say  that  he  read  her,  not  by  the  words,  but 
by  the  throbbing  of  the  lines.  They  wavered,  he 
said,  flushed  and  paled  like  summer  lightning  as 
he  watched  them.  She  wrote,  "Your  letter  makes 
me  very  proud,  though  it  puzzles  me  too.  I  try  to 
believe  what  you  tell  me,  but  of  course  I  know  that 
you  are  not  a  fair  judge!  It's  very  difficult  some- 
times to  know  what  one  ought  to  do,  supposing  one 


230  OPEN  COUNTRY 

has  any  power  of  acting  on  other  people.  I  wish 
very  much  that  I  could  talk  to  you  of  my  affairs. 
They  get  in  such  a  tangle  sometimes.  I  see  what 
you  mean  about  the  Woman's  Art,  and  quite  believe 
that  there  may  be  such  women.  But  when  you  tell 
me  that  I  can  learn  it,  it  makes  me  rather  nervous. 
It's  a  great  responsibility.  I  want  very  much  to  do 
right.  You  have  given  me  great  ideals,  and  I  work 
for  them.  But  I'm  rather  disheartened  just  now. 
When  shall  you  be  within  reach  of  me?  Your 
perplexed  Sanchia." 

To  this  he  immediately  replied:  ''I  am  coming 
at  once.  In  two  days  I  shall  see  your  eyes — and 
then,  if  you  please,  never  again." 


CHAPTER  XX 

THE  PLAY  QUICKENS  AND  RUNS  UP  TO  A  POINT 

The  writer  of  that  letter,  Senhouse  my  friend, 
scared  out  of  his  philosophy,  made  forced  marches 
from  Wastdale  to  London,  arriving  there  in  mid- 
June,  the  season  at  its  height.  Vicky  Percival,  in 
gauzy  draperies  which  showed  her  shining  as  the 
moon  in  a  cloud  fleece,  flitted  (chiefly  in  hansoms 
and  seldom  alone)  from  party  to  party.  Hawise, 
Lady  Pinwell,  gave  dinners  to  Conservative  states- 
men and  their  wives;  Philippa,  Mrs.  Tompsett- 
King,  had  the  Bishop  of  Seringapatam  and  Mrs. 
Luff  staying  with  her  for  a  Congress.  Melusine 
and  her  mother  were  much  occupied  with  trousseau 
matters;  and  Mr.  Gerald  Scales  stood  outside  many 
a  shop-door  and  smoked  cigars.  He  was  a  stoutly 
built,  black-browed  and  rubicund  young  man,  al- 
ways well  dressed — though  his  taste  in  clothes  was 
never  mine.  Mrs.  Percival  thought  him  vivid,  and 
would  have  you  mark  his  strength  of  character. 
Melusine  (to  her  diary)  called  him  Tristan:  to  his 
friends  he  was  Tubby — Tubby  Scales.  What  sort 
of  appearance  the  lean  figure,  clad  in  white  sweater 
and  grey  flannel  trousers,  the  swarthy,  darkly- 
smiling  face  and  eyes  of  gipsy  black  of  my  even  more 

231 


232  OPEN  COUNTRY 

salient  friend  may  have  made  to  these  people — say, 
in  Bond  Street  of  a  fine  afternoon — one  can  but  guess. 
Bill  Chevenix,  who  chanced  upon  him  once,  reported 
him  to  Vicky,  all  unknowing,  as  "an  astonishing 
sportsman,"  and  supposed  that  he  advertised  some 
rest-cure  or  crystal-gazer.  This  makes  one  fancy 
that  he  had  not  yet — in  those  still  early,  vehement 
years  of  his  life — learned  to  accommodate  himself  to 
the  customs  of  society.  Later  on,  he  certainly  did, 
for  I  met  him  frequently  in  London  in  1 900-1-2  and 
saw  nothing  outlandish  in  his  appearance.  He  had 
a  dress-coat  (of  the  oldest,  it's  true)  at  that  time, 
and  might  have  sat  among  his  peers  at  the  opera 
without  remark,  though  I  believe  he  never  did.  He 
used  to  say  that  you  could  only  hear  music  prop- 
erly alone  or  with  musicians.  Very  naturally,  then, 
he  chose  for  the  gallery.  But  these  are  trifles: 
certainly  he  would  have  been  more  entertaining  to 
Bill  Chevenix  than  entertained  by  Bill.  The  point 
is  that  there  he  was,  and  in  no  happy  frame  of  mind, 
getting  such  glimpses  of  his  adorable  Sanchia  as 
Mr.  Ingram  could  spare  him. 

Now  Mr.  Ingram,  at  this  hour,  was  deeply  and 
undisguisedly  enamoured.  He  was  frequently  at 
the  point  of  not  caring  who  knew  it,  and  only  pulled 
up,  I  do  believe,  by  the  undoubted  fact  that  when 
Vicky  showed  that  she  knew  it  he  cared  very  much 
indeed.  It  was  in  Vicky's  power  to  strike  him  with 
chills;  she  had  a  level  way  of  looking  at  him,  su- 
perbly disdainful — as  a  Goddess  from  her  chariot 
may  have  regarded  some  doomed,  abandoned  wretch 


THE  PLAY  QUICKENS  233 

in  a  tragedy — which  honestly  made  the  young  man 
ashamed  of  himself.  He  used  to  stalk  back  to 
Jermyn  Street  after  such  an  encounter  muttering 
to  himself  and  saying,  By  George  he  must  pull  up 
a  bit.  And  so  he  did  for  a  dozen  hours — at  the  end 
of  which  the  call  would  prove  too  strong  for  him, 
and  he  would  make  vehement  suit  to  Sanchia  with 
eyes  and  voice,  and  silence  (which  was  the  fiercest 
way  of  all).  He  was  nearly  always  with  her:  when 
she  walked  alone  in  the  mornings,  she  was  not  alone ; 
in  the  afternoons,  at  a  party,  he  would  join  her;  he 
read  with  her,  evenings,  and  danced  with  her  o'nights. 
Now  what  hours  of  what  days  were  left  for  the  vol- 
untary outcast  in  sweater  and  grey  flannels  revisit- 
ing the  glimpses  of  his  moon  ? 

Sanchia,  dumb  before  the  world,  very  pale,  grave- 
eyed  and  careworn  at  this  time, — careworn,  poor 
child,  at  a  time  when  she  had  been  better  without  a 
thought, — did  find  some  means  to  be  kind  to  both 
her  lovers.  To  Senhouse  she  could  never  be  any- 
thing but  loyal — if  loyalty  were  any  good  to  him. 
The  moment  she  knew  of  his  coming  she  went  to 
see  him  in  Grosvenor  Gardens;  she  gave  him  the 
whole  of  that  morning,  but  refused  to  stay  to  lunch- 
eon. Excusing  herself  by  alleging  a  press  of  en- 
gagements, she  was  swept  away  in  a  cab,  and 
as  she  fleeted  up  Park  Lane  you  might  have  seen 
in  her  wide  eyes  a  light  such  as  Senhouse  had 
never  yet  been  able  to  put  there.  Yet  she  saw  him 
again  the  next  day  for  an  hour  or  so,  and  was  able 
to  make,   presently,  a   definite  engagement   for   a 


234  OPEN  COUNTRY 

visit  to  Kew,  and  tea  on  the  grass,  under  the  trees 
there. 

On  such  ghmpses,  on  such  shadowy  promises 
he  throve  as  best  he  might,  and  kept  his  love  ahve. 
He  must  have  reahsed  that  his  case  was  hopeless 
— even  if  he  had  not  done  that  before,  when,  at 
Gorston,  she  called  him  her  friend,  or  brother,  and 
had  kissed  his  forehead.  But  I  think  that,  drag- 
ging his  theories  violently  into  the  light,  affirming 
them  loudly  in  his  need  and  swearing  that  they  held 
water,  he  now  told  himself  that,  had  other  things 
been  equal  (as  God  knew  they  were  not),  she  could 
never  give  herself  to  him — nor  he  ask  it  of  her.  If 
there  was  any  single  condition  of  the  affairs  of  this 
world  upon  which  he  had  not  a  very  reasoned  theory, 
I  should  be  glad  to  know  it.  Certainly  marriage 
was  not  that  one.  His  theory  of  marriage,  freely 
declaimed,  was  that  it  was  a  wicked  and  detestable 
institution  by  which  women  could  still  be  put  into 
slavery  and  degradation.  He  thought  that  to  make 
a  woman  the  property  of  a  man  was  to  insult  her 
more  deeply  than  you  injured  her;  it  would  have 
been  inconceivable  to  him  that  a  man  who  loved, 
who  dared  to  love,  Sanchia  should  have  considered 
the  marrying  of  her.  ''Read  Leviticus,"  he  used 
to  thunder  at  the  dazed  and  well-dined  Roger  Char- 
nock;  ''read  Leviticus,  read  Deuteronomy,  you  old 
stock-keeper,  if  you  would  understand  the  marriage- 
service!  Read  the  Psalms  of  David.  'Happy  is 
the  man  that  hath  his  quiverful ' ;  that's  the  use  of 
the  woman  to  him,  that's  the  lodestone  of  his  heart 


THE  PLAY  QUICKENS  235 

— not  her  eyes,  man,  but  her  womb.  And  you  tell 
me  that  Dante,  who  saw  all  Hell  and  Heaven  ranked 
in  Her  honour,  would  better  have  yoked  her  with  a 
ring  and  made  a  drudge  of  her  noble  limbs,  and  let 
her  starry  eyes  grow  dim  in  the  service  of  his  bed  and 
board  ?  And  why  ?  That  he  might  not  be  ashamed 
before  his  enemies  in  the  gate !  Oh,  lord  of  the  earth, 
what  sacrifice  is  too  great  for  thy  proper  pride? 
No,  no.  If  you  would  make  women  free  indeed, 
he  used  to  tell  Charnock,  with  monitory  forefinger, 
you  must  cut  the  marriage-service  out  of  your  prayer- 
book.  They  may  then  meet  men  on  equal  terms; 
and  the  rest  you  may  leave  to  them.  The  life  of 
a  woman  loveworthy  should  be  one  long  courtship, 
he  vowed.  No  man  is  fit  to  touch  a  woman's  hem, 
in  truth;  what  she  gives  him  let  him  think  himself 
lucky  to  get;  but  at  least,  at  the  very  least,  let  him 
have  the  decency  to  own  up  to  his  fortune — not 
swell  from  the  wedding-day,  and  strut  out  of  church, 
a  stock-keeper,  a  funded  man;  and  thenceforward 
go  his  lordly  way,  with  a  considering  eye  for  this 
trim  shape  and  that  rosy  cheek,  and  a  galliard  leap 
of  the  heart  at  the  thought— "My  wife  (lately  a 
star)  is  now  at  home,  busy  about  my  hearth.  I 
have  dined— and  well;  let  me  now  take  the  case  of 
this  pretty  child,  who  (God  pity  her)  sees  me  a  fine 
figure  of  a  man.  Hum,  sweeting,  shall  we  take  a 
turn?"  And  then  he  would  rise  his  lean  length 
and  hold  shocked  Charnock  with  his  piercing  eyes, 
and  say,  *'God  of  Life  and  Love,  Roger,  do  you  ask 
me  to  put  myself  in  that  stallion's  shoes?"     And 


236  OPEN  COUNTRY 

Charnock  would  stiffly  reply,  "I  ought  not  to  listen 
to  you,  Jack.     That's  all  I  have  to  say." 

This  extravagant  philosophy  he  now  summoned 
in  his  need — which  was  very  sore.  He  told  him- 
self times  and  again,  not  only  she  did  not  love  him, 
not  only  did  she  probably  love  somebody  else,  but 
that  he  loved  her  out  of  hope  and  measure  and  could 
therefore  never  have  her.  And  by  dint  of  hammer- 
ing the  paradox  into  his  head,  day  in,  day  out,  he 
came  to  accept  it  as  a  law  of  being,  and  was  charming 
to  her.  He  slew  his  innermost  self,  he  stifled  love 
and  adopted  friendship  in  his  stead.  He  was  with 
her  in  Charnock's  drawing-room,  in  picture-galleries, 
in  garden  and  park,  whenever  she  would  have  him 
there,  and  not  by  one  glimmer  of  a  hint  did  he  let 
her  know  what  he  had  done  in  her  honour.  He  was, 
to  all  appearance,  the  man  he  had  been  when  she 
knew  him  first,  eloquent,  profuse,  absurd,  rhap- 
sodising on  this  and  that — poetry,  politics,  life  and 
death,  the  here  and  the  hereafter.  He  made  her 
laugh,  he  made  her  tearful;  he  made  her  think,  he 
made  her  hope.  He  fortified  her  pride,  inspired  her 
to  courage;  in  a  word,  he  gave  her  back  herself  into 
her  own  hands  again.  She  read  herself  in  his  eyes; 
and  though  she  was  too  reasonable  to  believe  all 
that  she  saw  there,  she  was  not  proof  against  some- 
thing of  the  flattering  picture.  She  took  it  from 
him  that  she  had  character  and  parts;  that  she 
could  think  and  ought  to  think.  She  understood 
that  she  had  a  brain,  and  that  many  other  people 
had  not — but  only  habits. 


THE  PLAY  QUICKENS  237 

I  repeat — his  talk  with  her  was  hardly  ever  about 
people,  nearly  always  about  things.  Men  were 
Man  to  him,  or  Mankind;  women  were  Woman. 
Falling  naturally  into  his  way,  it  was  so  also  with 
her.  Consequently  Ingram  rarely  left  her  heart 
by  way  of  the  tongue.  Once  or  twice  he  had  hovered, 
as  it  were,  at  the  gate,  had  been  on  her  lips ;  but  the 
moment  had  gone  by;  she  had  been  swept  forward 
on  the  rush  of  her  friend's  discourse,  and  the  young 
man  had  retired.  And  yet  it  may  well  have  been 
that  she  was  to  see  him  that  afternoon  at  a  party,  or 
read  poetry  with  him  that  evening,  after  tea,  in  Great 
Cumberland  Place.  Sanchia  was  by  nature  re- 
served, it's  true,  and  preferred  her  own  counsel;  but 
Senhouse,  watching  her  like  a  terrier,  knew  very 
well  that  she  had  something  to  tell  him. 

And  so  she  had.  She  had  realised  that  she  was 
drifting,  she  knew  not  whither — save  that  the  stream 
that  bore  her  was  very  sweet,  and  the  airs  that  wafted 
her  warm  and  fragrant.  Music  seemed  to  be  in 
them  —  eager,  strong  and  hopeful,  yet  sometimes 
rising  sharp  and  high,  with  a  hurt  note,  as  if  some 
soul  or  another  was  adrift  with  her,  adrift  and  voic- 
ing pain.  The  question  still  came  to  her — came 
and  stared  at  her — Was  she  doing  right?  Right! 
Alas,  where  now  stood  Right  and  Wrong?  Or 
where  stood  she,  a  daughter  of  the  Church  ?  Stood 
they,  as  once,  on  either  side  the  confessional  of  the 
Rev.  Father  Stephen  Morony?  Or  stood  they 
boldly,  rugged  and  naked,  in  the  Open  Country, 
in  sight  of  Pan  and  the  Nymphs  ?    Here  were  ques- 


238  OPEN  COUNTRY 

tions  she  would  fain  have  put  to  Senhouse,  which 
she  had  not,  so  far,  put  to  the  Rev.  Father  Morony. 
She  was,  you  will  have  understood,  the  child  of 
churchgoing  parents — of  a  father  sturdily  Anglican 
and  of  a  mother  High  Anglican.  At  eleven  o'clock 
on  Sunday  mornings  she  had  been  trained  to  go 
with  both  parents  to  what  Mr.  Percival  called  Morn- 
ing Prayer,  and  Mrs.  Percival  Mattins  with  Sermon. 
Mr.  Percival  prayed  into  his  hat  without  kneeling; 
Mrs.  Percival,  having  genuflected  to  the  altar,  signed 
her  bosom  before  she  commended  herself.  But 
before  that  silken,  scented,  and  crowded  ceremony 
could  take  place,  Sanchia  with  her  mother  had  been 
to  a  small,  darkened  and  twinkling  shrine  and  had 
heard  the  Communion  Ofiice  on  her  knees,  with 
clasped  hands  and  bowed  head.  Once  a  month  she 
received  the  Sacrament,  once  a  month  she  confessed 
to  the  Rev.  Stephen  Morony  such  sins  as  had  oc- 
curred to  her  the  night  before  to  be  worthy  his  con- 
sideration. This  June,  for  the  first  time  in  her  re- 
membrance, she  had  omitted,  not  the  night's  reflec- 
tion certainly,  but  the  next  day's  rehearsal  to  a 
priest.  The  Reverend  Stephen  Morony  had  not, 
this  June,  called  her  his  dear  child,  had  not  given 
counsel  or  ghostly  comfort.  Here  was  a  Crisis.  She 
was  full  young,  and  she  was  scared.  Putting  it 
bluntly  to  herself,  Plad  she  refrained  (ah,  and  had 
she  not?)  because  she  knew  beforehand  just  what 
this  priest  would  say  to  her?  Had  she  been  a  cow- 
ard, and  shirked  her  duty?  Had  she  not?  There 
was  only  one  escape  from  the  certain  answer,  namely, 


THE  PLAY  QUICKENS  239 

conviction  (if  she  could  by  any  means  get  it)  that 
Father  Morony  would  have  been  wrong  in  his  judg- 
ment, and  that  Father  Morony  had  no  more  absolu- 
tion to  bestow  than  any  other  temperate  man  of  the 
world.  But  if  Father  Morony  were  but  a  man  of 
the  world,  where  were  his  Priest's  Orders?  Where, 
oh,  where  was  the  Apostolic  Succession?  Where 
were  the  Sacraments  of  the  Church?  Where  was 
Heaven  upon  Earth,  and  where,  shrouded  and 
awful,  was  God?  Oh,  she  might  well  complain, 
oh,  for  the  saner  creed  of  Vicky,  her  sister,  who  used 
to  save  up  ''sins"  until  they  got  to  be  what  she 
called  "a  bore,"  and  then  cart  them  bodily  to  the 
Reverend  Father  Morony  and  shoot  them  into  his 
confessional — and  write  that  evening  to  the  person 
concerned,  and  say  that  she  would  always  be  a 
friend,  and  always  anxious  about  his  welfare.  No 
such  simple  remedies  were  for  Sanchia.  The  mo- 
ment she  doubted  she  must  probe. 

To  discuss  these  things  with  her  ardent,  reason- 
able friend  would  have  been  as  easy  as  kissing — 
if  she  could  have  brought  herself  to  do  it.  But  there 
was  always  a  difficulty — the  difficulty  a  girl  must  feel 
in  talking  to  one  man  of  another.  Even  that  might 
have  been  got  over,  had  there  not  been  another  still 
more  hopeless  obstacle  in  sight  beyond.  To  talk  of 
Nevile  Ingram,  to  own  that  she  was  in  love,  and  loved, 
must  needs  have  led  her  to  speak  about  his  marriage, 
his  wife  in  Sicily,  and  her  disorderly  ways  there. 
And  to  do  this — if  she  could  bring  herself  to  try — 
would  fetch  her  up  at  a  point  where  she  must  imply 


240  OPEN  COUNTRY 

what  she  had  never  ventured  to  imply  even  to  her- 
self. What,  pray,  had  a  v^icked  vv^ife  in  Sicily  to 
do  with  her,  Sanchia,  in  love  in  England?  The 
ground  on  which  she  stood,  ostensibly,  was  solid, 
honourable  ground.  Nevile  was  unhappy,  lonely, 
in  danger  of  disaster,  and  she  kept  him  out  of  harm's 
way,  soothed,  strengthened,  rejoiced  him.  If  any 
motive  lay  behind,  connected  somehow  with  his 
wife  in  Sicily,  could  that  be  a  good  motive?  At 
this  point  she  always  shut  her  eyes,  and  moved  her 
pale  lips  in  a  sort  of  prayer.  "I  love  him,  I  make 
him  happy — he  needs  me,  he  loves  me" — some 
such  words,  prayer  by  suspiration  only.  And  after 
so  praying  she  put  the  question  aside,  and  heard  the 
voices  of  the  Sirens,  and  felt  the  steady  swift  sweet 
tide  carry  her  forward,  and  the  fragrance,  and  the 
hope;  and  so  drifted  on.  She  had  Scnhouse's  let- 
ters, and  fortified  herself  on  those.  He  had  told 
her  that  she  made  God  out  of  all  her  loveliest  thoughts 
— and  made  her  beloved  so  also.  He  had  told  her 
that  her  acts  and  words  must  be  holy  and  whole- 
some to  all  who  came  within  her  sensible  distance. 
He  had  told  her  that  the  one  sin  was  insincerity, 
and  the  great  virtue  poverty.  He  had  told  her  that 
all  religions  were  true  for  those  who  truly  held  them. 
The  Reverend  Stephen  Morony,  beaten  off  for  the 
time,  faded  from  her  sight — and  she  drifted  on. 
Then,  on  a  fine  Friday  afternoon,  walking  with  In- 
gram across  the  Park,  she  saw  Senhousc  striding  to 
meet  her.  Here  was  her  affair.  She  did  not  falter, 
though  her  eyes  grew  rigid.     She  said  to  her  com- 


THE  PLAY  QUICKENS  241 

panion,  ''This  is  my  friend,  Mr.  Senhouse,  coming. 
I  should  like  you  to  know  him." 

Ingram  looked  sharply  forward.  "Oh,  that's 
him,  is  it?"  he  said,  then  snapped  his  lips  together, 
and  straightened  himself.  Senhouse  had  seen  her 
before  she  had  become  aware  of  him  One  could 
guess  that  by  the  glaze  over  his  black  eyes,  and  the 
smoulder  below  it. 

But  when  he  stopped  before  her  all  such  symp- 
toms of  his  case  had  disappeared. 

''You!"  he  said.  "Wonderful!  London's  no 
bigger  than  England  after  all." 

Sanchia  had  her  business  before  her.  "I  want 
you  to  know  Mr.  Ingram,"  she  said — and  to  In- 
gram, "My  friend  Mr.  Senhouse."  The  two  men 
shook  hands,  Ingram  very  stiff.  But  it  was  he  who 
said,  "Very  glad  to  meet  you." 

Senhouse  returned  his,  "Thanks  very  much," 
and  began  at  once  to  talk — apparently  in  the  mid- 
dle of  what  he  had  been  thinking  of  before. 

"I've  been  looking  at  the  rabbits  in  the  enclosure 
— bread-fed  creatures,  sleek  and  round  as  dormice. 
You'd  say  there  wasn't  a  fibre  of  the  wild  beast  left 
unswayed  by  the  nursemaids  and  loungers.  But 
there  is — and  I'm  elated.  They've  got  some  Jap- 
anese iris  in  there — not  nibbled  down  yet.  It's  be- 
cause they're  in  wet  ground,  I  discover.  It  was 
very  odd." 

Ingram  stared  straight  at  this  creature,  so  much 
at  ease,  who  should  have  been  so  uneasy;  Sanchia's 
eyes  shone. 


242  OPEN  COUNTRY 

"I  watched  one  consider  the  case.  Was  it  worth 
wet  feet?  He  bundled  himself  up  to  the  edge  of 
the  mire,  and  hunched  himself,  and  thought  it  out. 
He  thought  with  his  nostrils,  you  know.  They 
agitated  like  fans.  Literally,  he  ventilated  his  ideas 
— decided  against  it,  and  began  to  feed  diligently 
where  he  was,  lest  he  should  be  tempted  to  reopen 
the  thing.  They  hate  wet,  you  know;  and  yet 
I've  seen  one  swim.  A  stoat  was  after  him."  Then, 
as  if  it  struck  him  suddenly,  he  flashed  Ingram 
into  the  conversation.     "Have  you  ever  seen  that?" 

Ingram  nodded  sharply.  "Yes,  I've  seen  it.  I 
shot  one  once  in  a  beck." 

All  Senhouse  said  was,  "I  hadn't  a  gun."  He 
allowed  for  Ingram's  defiance,  and  rather  liked 
him  for  it. 

But  Sanchia  said,  "You  wouldn't  have  shot  it  if 
you  had.  You  know  you  wouldn't."  He  looked 
at  her  quickly  and  grinned.  Ingram  saw  that.  It 
made  him  rather  prickly. 

Senhouse  branched  off  on  to  pictures,  and  dis- 
coursed for  a  few  moments  about  a  show  he  had 
been  to;  then,  finding  that  he  and  Sanchia  were 
getting  learned,  not  to  say  technical,  he  broke  off. 
"Farewell,"  he  said,  "until  to-morrow.  Our  en- 
gagement stands?" 

She  said,  "Of  course.  Grosvenor  Gardens  at 
two."  They  parted  without  shaking  hands,  and 
she  saw  him  swing  away  over  the  Park.  She  little 
knew  what  he  carried  with  him.  "God  bless  her! 
God   bless  her  always!  ...  It  may  be  all   right. 


THE  PLAY  QUICKENS  243 

Anyhow,  she's  a  Goddess,  and  can  do  no  wrong. 
And — God  bless  her  always!" 

He  winced  at  the  pain,  and  shut  his  eyes  hard 
more  than  once.  "Courage!  Face  the  Open, 
young  man!"  He  walked  far  into  the  night,  he 
knew  not  well  whither.  London  was  to  see  no 
more  of  him  for  a  season. 

After  he  had  fought  his  beasts,  he  wrote  to  her. 


CHAPTER  XXI 

THE  tramp's  testament 

Chanctonbury  Ring,  A  Wild  Night. 

All  the  hounds  of  heaven  and  hell  are  loose 
about  me  to-night.  The  South-west  has  opened 
wide  his  gates,  and  the  wind-pack  is  abroad.  But 
their  howling  and  the  gnashing  of  their  teeth  can- 
not drown  the  shrill  music  of  my  heart.  This  is 
the  song  it  sings — I  have  loved,  I  have  loved — I 
have  told  her  that  and  let  her  go.  Now  I  am  alone 
in  the  dark,  with  no  companion  but  a  dream. 

She  is  not  for  me — she  is  too  high.  It  were  as 
if  one  wooed  a  goddess.  No,  no,  I  have  done  well 
to  give  her  back  her  heart,  to  put  away  her  thin 
sweet  hands,  to  look  my  last  into  her  deep  eyes,  to 
wait  my  last  upon  her  sad  lips.  The  work  she  has 
to  do,  alone  with  her  heart,  is  as  nothing  to  the 
wrong  I  dared  to  dream  against  her.  She,  Sanchia, 
the  tramp's  mate — hedgerow-comrade  of  his  dis- 
ordered goings!     Madman,  what  were  you  about? 

Now  the  dream  is  over.  It  has  gone  as  this  great 
storm  will  go.  When  the  last  tatters  of  the  torn 
clouds  have  flown  their  way  before  the  gale,  I  shall 
look  out  seaward  to  a  white-rimmed  sky,  or  over 
the  weald  of  Sussex  to  the  blue  Surrey  hills;  see 
Hindhead  like  a  broken  knife-blade,  and  the  long 

244 


THE  TRAMP'S  TESTAMENT  245 

ridge  of  Leith  Hill  shrouded  in  trees.  The  truce 
of  heaven  will  shine  on  all  alike;  the  sun,  rising 
over  Wolstonbury,  will  touch  the  spire  of  Cowfold, 
and  warm  the  grey  and  russet  of  old  Wiston  into 
life.  On  me  too  will  that  peace  descend,  and  I 
shall  tell  myself  that  all  is  well.  For  Sanchia  lives 
her  holy  life,  thou  poor  fool;  and  thou  mayest  love 
her  all  thy  fill,  and  take  joy  in  her  fair  going,  thank- 
ing God  for  all  that  she  has  been  to  thee.  Thou 
hast  had  thy  vision  of  Artemis  the  Chaste.  Cour- 
age, then;  do  thy  work  in  the  world.  She  is  thy 
friend  for  ever — is  not  this  honour  enough  ? 
I  know  well  that  it  is. 

Ask  any  woman  you  please  which  was  the  happi- 
est time  of  her  life,  she  will  tell  you — the  year  of  her 
betrothal.  Ask  any  man,  he  will  tell  you — his 
bachelor  days.  What  do  these  things  mean?  It 
is  worth  while  finding  out.  That  which  should  be 
the  perfecting  of  the  nature  of  either,  when  the  two 
human  hemispheres,  as  Plato  puts  it,  are  one  round- 
ed whole  again,  does  not  in  either  case  result  in  hap- 
piness. Contentment,  possibly,  but  not  happiness. 
Marriage,  then,  is  not  the  happy  state.    How  then  ? 

It  is  not,  and  it  cannot  be,  as  it  is  now  ordered; 
for  the  notion  of  possession,  of  property  once  more, 
has  entered  in  and  vitiated  it.  It  has  poisoned  the 
nature  of  man  and  degraded  the  conscience  of 
woman.  Women  are  not,  it  may  be,  angels  before 
marriage ;  it  is  certain  that  they  should  not  be  prop- 
erty afterwards.     But  since,  by  virtue  of  a  legal  con- 


246  OPEN  COUNTRY 

tract,  they  are  technically  so,  a  man  is  so  made  by 
tradition  and  proneness  to  possess  that  he  will  con- 
sider her  so,  even  against  his  own  judgment,  even 
despite  his  own  honour ;  and  the  moment  he  believes 
himself  secure  of  her  he  will  cease  to  serve  her. 
Now,  to  love  a  woman,  in  my  belief,  is  not  only  to 
desire  her.  Much  more  it  is  to  be  allowed  to  serve 
her.  The  better  part  of  loving  is  the  need  to  give, 
not  the  desire  to  receive.  In  a  perfect  union  of 
hearts  and  bodies  the  rivalry  is  not  who  shall  get, 
but  who  shall  spend  the  more.  There  should  be 
no  end  to  that  noble  strife — nor  will  there  be  on  the 
woman's  part;  nor  need  there  be  on  the  man's,  if 
he  is  always  to  he  blessed.  Poisoned  man  is  the  bane 
of  marriage,  not  woman.  It  is  natural  to  a  woman 
to  mate,  natural  to  a  man  to  master.  But  unless  we 
curb  that  brute  instinct  in  the  man  there  can  be  no 
real  happiness  for  the  woman. 

As  for  me,  I  will  never  marry  as  the  law  now 
stands.  I  will  not  enslave  any  woman.  To  put 
into  my  hands  legal  instruments  whereby  I  am 
secure  in  her  so  long  as  she  is  worth  my  while,  and 
free  of  her  the  moment  she  does  what  it  is  my  right, 
as  a  man,  to  do;  so  to  treat  the  woman  in  whose  eyes 
I  have  seen  heaven,  to  whose  heart  I  go  for  peace,  is  to 
insult  me  by  the  supposition  that  I  can  so  insult  her. 
I  will  never  do  it,  Sanchia.     I'll  become  a  monk  first. 

What's  to  be  done  then?  I  have  nothing  heroic 
to  suggest.  If  I  go  maimed  through  life,  an  un- 
rounded  hemisphere,    I'll   hobble   along,   my   con- 


THE  TRAMP'S  TESTAMENT  247 

science  clear,  at  least.  And  perhaps  ''Patience  and 
shuffle  the  cards"  is  as  good  a  roadside  saw  as  any 
other.  There  are  signs  that  the  accursed  old  sys- 
tem is  breaking  up — signs  on  all  sides.  Reason- 
able persons  have  long  lifted  their  eyebrows,  and 
now  are  beginning  to  lift  their  voices.  So  the  time 
may  be  coming  when  they  can  lift  up  their  hearts. 
It  won't  be  yet ;  you  and  I  may  never  see  it.  It  was 
expedient  once,  we  read,  that  one  man  should  die 
for  the  people.  It  is  doubtless  necessary  that  there 
should  be  frequent  crucifixions.  It  seems  to  be 
the  way  of  the  world.  A  man  to  whom  the  truth  is 
blazed  as  clear  as  noon  goes  out  into  the  streets  filled 
to  the  lips  with  his  revelation.  Smug  citizens  avoid 
him,  put  up  their  shutters,  and  lock  their  doors; 
dogs  bark  at  his  heels ;  the  ribald  gather ;  one  throws 
a  stone.  Then  comes  the  storm  upon  him,  in  the 
which  he  falls,  battered,  bleeding,  with  glazed  eyes. 
There's  an  end  of  the  blasphemer  who  dares  to 
question  established  order,  who  says  that  use  and 
wont  are  not  sacred  at  all,  but  hoary  in  iniquity. 

Having  slain  him,  they  learn  that  he  was  a  god, 
and  his  revelation  a  law  of  nature.  Up  goes  a 
statue,  and  his  words  are  read  as  gospel.  That's  how 
we  get  on  in  this  quaint  world,  climbing  to  the  stars 
on  the  heaped  bodies  of  our  heroes  and  sages.  It's 
no  use  quarrelling  with  it.  Whether  I'm  to  trample 
or  be  trampled,  teach  me,  Sanchia,  not  to  complain. 

If  I  had  been  less  certain  of  what  honour  and 
conscience  had  to  tell  me,  I  had  made  you  mine  at 


248  OPEN  COUNTRY 

Gorston  the  other  day — not  by  that  kiss,  you  gave 
me,  but  by  others  I  should  have  given  you.  My 
beautiful,  ardent,  noble,  thrilled  young  creature, 
visible  incarnation  of  all  that  is  clean  and  quick,  I 
can  thank  God  that  you  have  kissed  me  once,  and 
that  I  have  done  no  more  than  receive  that  bene- 
diction. They  say  that  holy  Artemis  bent  over 
Endymion  as  he  lay  at  Latmos.  'Tis  her  only 
stooping:  she  never  graced  Hippolytus  as  highly, 
another  devotee.  And  Dante  lived  to  walk  the 
dusty  ways  of  hell,  and  see  the  live  silver  of  the 
spheres,  having  received  the  salutation  of  Beatrice. 
She  bowed  to  him,  once,  in  the  street.  He  never 
felt  chilly  after  that,  nor  complained  of  short  rations. 
God  knows  that  I  shall  not. 

The  life  I  lead  seems  to  be  reasonable,  because 
it  shirks  nothing,  concedes  nothing,  is  useful,  brings 
me  back  and  keeps  me  close  to  the  real  Good  Things. 
Did  I  ever  tell  you  of  a  man  I  knew  once,  a  man 
called  Thursfield,  who  had  what  they  call  mis- 
fortunes? Such  indeed  they  were.  His  children 
grew  up  and  went  into  the  world;  his  wife  tired  of 
him  and  went  her  ways  also.  He  was  left  in  middle 
life  with  nothing  but  some  thousands  a  year  and  a 
house  or  two.  Odd  as  one  might  think  it,  they  didn't 
satisfy  him.  He  let  them  all  go;  I  believe  that  he 
endowed  a  charity  with  them — an  almshouse  of 
sorts.  I  found  him  some  two  years  ago  in  a  hollow 
of  the  Dorsetshire  Downs,  inhabiting  a  shepherd's 
wooden  hut,  living  mostly  on  what  he  could  coax 


THE  TRAMP'S  TESTAMENT  249 

out  of  the  unthrifty  soil.  He  quoted  George  Bor- 
row to  me:  ''There's  night  and  day,  brother,  both 
sweet  things;  there's  hkewise  the  wind  on  the 
heath!"  He  called  these  the  Good  Things,  and  said 
that  they  were  good  enough  for  him.  The  sun 
the  wind,  the  rain:  I  too  find  them  excellent.  And 
if  I  want  another  stand-by  or  a  stronghold  to  fly 
to,  I  can  lift  up  my  eyes  to  the  everlasting  hills. 
Black  Sail  will  always  shelter  Mosedale,  and  in 
Chanctonbury  Ring  I  can  still  find  Pan  and  the 
Nymphs. 

The  storm  dies  down,  the  wet  stars  behold  me. 
Over  the  bones  of  dead  Briton  and  dead  Roman 
the  leaf-mould  lies  quiet,  and  out  of  them  spring 
old  Goring's  beeches.  Dim  through  the  dark  I 
can  guess  at  the  great-breasted  downs,  and  hear 
afar  off  the  tinkle  of  the  sheep-bells.  Courage 
comes  back  after  a  night  with  Pan  at  his  fiercest; 
the  nymphs  peer  up  from  the  borstal,  or  through 
the  holt;  and  here  gleams  a  white  shoulder,  and 
there  weave  white  arms.  The  God  of  Nature  is  a 
kindly  soul.  He  likes  us  to  have  courage,  and  keep 
good  hearts. 

Farewell,  Sanchia,  too  dear  for  my  possessing; 
I  leave  you  in  the  keeping  of  that  benevolent  one. 
"For  He  shall  give  His  Angels  charge  over  thee,  to 
keep  thee  in  all  thy  ways.  They  shall  bear  thee 
up  in  their  hands,  lest  thou  dash  thy  foot  against 
a  stone."     When  next  I  write  to  you,  or  see  your 


250  OPEN  COUNTRY 

face,  lover  or  not,  you  shall  never  know  it.  And 
I'll  come  and  pipe  at  your  wedding  when  you  bid 
me.  I  have  what  I  have,  and  am  content.  Lo, 
the  dawn  is  here!    Farewell. 


CHAPTER  XXII 

IN  THE  DRAWING-ROOM 

It  seems,  then,  that  he  had  failed  to  keep  tryst 
with  her;  there  had  been  no  walk  in  Kew  Gardens; 
in  that  short  interview  in  Hyde  Park  she  had  looked 
her  last  upon  one  lover,  as  such.  His  letter  from 
Chanctonbury  told  her  so  much.  Remained  the 
other. 

Ingram  remained,  inseparable  from  her  side. 
Every  look  he  gave  her,  every  look  he  withheld, 
the  words  he  said,  the  words  he  didn't  say,  his  curt, 
sharp  letters  with  neither  beginning  nor  ending — 
all  told  her  that  he  must  be  reckoned  with,  and  con- 
firmed the  hasty  and  continuous  whisperings  of  her 
own  heart.  She  was  so  far  gone  in  love  with  the 
young  man  that  Senhouse's  adoring  and  desperate 
cry  scarce  touched  her  at  all.  She  was  not  pitiful 
when  she  learned  that  he  had  come  up  with  a  ques- 
tion on  his  lips  and  had  not  had  the  heart  to  put  it; 
she  was  not  even  touched  by  the  fatuity  of  his  reasons 
for  not  putting  it — as  if  his  belief  or  non-belief  in 
marriage  could  have  swayed  her!  Her,  so  deep  in 
love  with  a  married  man!  Such  gallant  blindness 
must  have  filled  her  eyes  at  any  time  but  this. 

She    answered    him    kindly,    affectionately.     She 

251 


252  OPEN  COUNTRY 

wrote,  "Dear  friend,  I  hope  that  nothing  will  ever 
persuade  me  that  you  are  not  that.  Some  day, 
when  I  have  time  to  think  how  much  I  owe  you, 
I  will  write  to  you  about  my  debt.  I  can  never 
pay  it,  I  know;  but  I  don't  think  you  v/ill  want  me 
to.  If  you  still  care  for  the  promise  I  made  you  at 
Gorston  I  shall  always  hold  to  it.  One  of  my 
reasons  for  being  soiTy  that  you  couldn't  come  to 
Kew  was  that  I  couldn't  ask  your  advice.  But  per- 
haps I  shouldn't  have  had  the  courage.  ...  I  am 
sure  you  rate  me  too  highly — of  course  you  do.  It 
makes  me  nervous,  and  afraid  of  not  coming  up  to 
the  standard.  But  you  told  me  once  that  one  ought 
always  to  aim  at  things  out  of  reach;  so  perhaps 
I  shall  grow  by  degrees.  Good-bye  for  the  mo- 
ment: they  are  waiting  for  me  to  go  out.  I  shall 
write  again  soon,  and  hope  that  you  will.     Sanchia." 

In  July  matters  swept  swiftly  to  a  climax.  Love 
is  a  voracious  eater:  the  dainties  of  to-day  are  mere 
food  for  to-morrow.  By  the  middle  of  the  month 
it  had  come  to  this,  that  Ingram  found  himself  un- 
able to  be  with  her  alone,  and  that  she,  knowing  his 
pain,  found  it  so  sweet  as  to  be  almost  irresistible. 
The  bare  presence  of  each  was  trembling-matter  to 
the  other.  They  would  stand  in  assemblies,  tongue- 
tied,  preoccupied,  not  daring  to  look — a  locked  pair, 
convicted  at  a  glance.  Vicky  Percival  was  scared 
out  of  her  wits,  so  much  so  that  she  did  foolishly. 
She  railed,  not  to  Sanchia,  but  to  her  mother. 

Mrs.  Percival,  unfortunately,  had  taken  a  great 


IN  THE  DRAWING-ROOM  253 

liking  for  Ingram.  She  admired  all  that  he  stood 
for,  we  know;  but  she  esteemed  the  man  himself 
for  what  he  was.  Accustomed  as  she  had  been  to 
deference  in  her  household  and  circle  of  acquaint- 
ance, she  was  now  in  the  company  of  a  person  who 
never  deferred  to  anybody,  but  who,  rather,  took 
her  advice  because  it  agreed  with  his  own,  and  as- 
sumed in  seeking  it  that  it  would.  This  flattered 
her.  And  as  is  always  the  case  with  women  of  the 
sort,  she  found  it  impossible  to  believe  evil  of  a 
man  of  whom  she  so  much  desired  to  think  highly. 
Opposition,  moreover,  was  never  tolerable  to  her, 
and  opposition  from  any  child  of  hers  but  Philippa 
savoured  of  rebellion;  and  rebellion  was  a  sin. 
Therefore  when  Vicky  railed,  and  rasped  with  her 
tongue,  Mrs.  Percival  hardened  her  heart  against 
Vicky;  finally  she  told  her  to  mind  her  own  busi- 
ness. ''You  are  accusing  your  sister — an  inno- 
cent, pure-minded  child — of  downright  wickedness," 
she  told  her.  "I  am  forced  to  tell  you  that  merely 
to  think  of  such  things  does  you  little  credit.  Blessed 
are  the  pure  in  heart,  my  child.  It  is  terrible  to  me 
to  have  to  understand  that  one  of  my  children  can 
slander  her  younger  sister."  Mrs.  Percival  was 
apt  to  be  the  victim  of  her  own  eloquence.  She 
mostly  said  more  than  she  meant,  and  always  too 
much.  "x\s  for  Nevile,"  she  went  on — she  called 
him  Nevile  nowadays — "he  seems  to  me  the  model 
of  a  Christian  English  gentleman,  who  does  not 
wear  his  heart  upon  his  sleeve — ah — for  daws  to 
peck  at.     When  I  think  of  what  agonies  of  mind 


254  OPEN  COUNTRY 

he  must  have  undergone,  of  his  manly  forbearance, 
and  almost  more  than  manly  reticence,  I  feel  towards 
him  as  a  mother  to  a  son.  I  don't  hesitate  to  tell 
you  so.  I  am  really  grieved  that  you,  my  daughter, 
should  have  spoken  as  you  have;  and  yet  I  had 
rather  bear  the  insinuations  you  have  thought  fit 
to  make  against  me,  your  mother,  than — than — have 
you  think  them.  That  is  truly  shocking  to  my 
mind." 

Vicky  was  not  clear  what  this  antithesis  might 
mean,  and  said  so.  Mrs.  Percival,  who  felt  herself 
that  there  was  something  wrong  with  it,  thereupon 
grew  downright  angry.  She  reared  her  head  like 
a  snake  and  struck  sideways.  "I  will  ask  you  to 
respect  my  grey  hairs,  Victoria.  I  will  ask  you  to 
remember  that,  at  present,  you  are  under  my  roof. 
When  I  find  that  you  can  do  one  or  both  of  these 
things  I  shall  be  prepared  to  talk  with  you;  but  not 
until  then.  May  I  now  resume  my  work?  My 
correspondence  is  heavy,  and  I  cannot  let  it  accumu- 
late."    Vicky  retired,  defeated. 

And  so  we  come  to  the  events  of  the  twenty-first 
of  July,  and  a  crisis:  earthquake  and  eclipse. 

On  the  morning  of  that  day  there  had  been  rid- 
ing in  the  Row.  Vicky  and  Sanchia  had  ridden; 
Ingram  had  joined  them,  of  course,  and  a  Captain 
Sinclair.  Later  on,  when  Bill  Chcvcnix  had  hailed 
them  from  the  railings,  Sanchia  had  waved  her 
hand  and  cantered  past,  followed  by  Ingram;  but 
Vicky  had  pulled  up. 

She  had  said  to  her  cavalier,  "I  want  to  talk  to 


IN  THE  DRAWING-ROOM  255 

Mr.  Chevenix  a  minute.  I'll  catch  you  up  if  you 
walk."  Then  she  had  drawn  rein  at  the  railings 
and  she  and  Chevenix  had  exchanged  glances. 

"I  say,  you  know!"  was  Chevenix's  commen- 
tary upon  affairs.     Vicky  nodded. 

**It's  this  sort  of  thing  every  day.  I  wish  we 
could  talk  about  it.  Could  you  come  in  this  after- 
noon?   There  are  people  to  tea.     Could  you?" 

Chevenix  declared  that  he  really  couldn't.  ''It's 
no  good  my  promising,  you  know.  I've  got  a 
dozen  things  I  ought  to  do,  and  don't  see  a  chance 
of  doing  half  of  'em.  That's  the  worst  of  having 
nothing  to  do,  if  you  understand  me;  you  always 
do  too  much.     Now  this  afternoon  there's " 

''I  can't  wait,"  said  Vicky,  her  eyes  upon  the 
advancing  Sinclair;  "but  I  should  like  to  see  you. 
Something  must  be  done.     I  think  mamma's  mad." 

"She  always  was,  between  you  and  me,"  Chevenix 
said.  "I'll  tell  you  what  I'll  do.  I'll  drop  in  after 
dinner  on  my  way  to  Grosvenor  Square.  About 
ten — eh?    How  would  that  do?" 

Vicky  shook  her  head.  "We're  going  some- 
where— I  don't  know  where  or  when.  It's  almost 
certain  to  be  useless — but  come  all  the  same."  She 
reflected.  "Yes,  come,"  she  said.  "I'll  be  in — 
anyhow." 

Chevenix  waved  her  off.  "Right.  I'm  there. 
Ten  o'clock." 

Before  tea  Vicky  the  untiring  did  contrive  to  say 
a  word  to  Sanchia,  whose  woe-begone  aspect  sug- 
gested a  crisis.     "If  you  get  a  chance,  I  advise  you 


256  OPEN  COUNTRY 

to  stop  all  this  to-day.  I'll  make  one  for  you  if  I 
can.     But,  Sancie,  it  must  be  stopped." 

"Must  it?"  Sancie  echoed.     "I  suppose  so." 

"If  you'd  done  it  before,  my  dear,"  said  the 
wise  and  candid,  "it  would  have  been  better  for 
everybody — including  me.  But  even  now  you  can 
make  it  all  right.  It  will  be  awful  for  you.  Yet 
— one  does  get  over  it  quite  quickly,  you  know." 
Sanchia,  however,  did  not  look  like  that  sort. 

The  tea-party  was  neither  more  nor  less  than  a 
sprinkling  of  dowagers  in  white  gloves.  Only  one 
man  was  present:  Ingram.  He,  abating  no  jot  of 
his  phlegm,  brazened  it  out — so  Vicky  thought — 
in  an  amazing  way.  His  matter-of-fact  talk — to 
everybody  but  Sanchia — was  precisely  as  usual;  to 
Mrs.  Percival  he  was  the  observant,  collected  son 
of  the  house — precisely  as  usual.  But  with  Sanchia 
he  betrayed  himself;  he  was  constrained  and  ner- 
vous; never  looked  at  her,  hardly  addressed  her 
a  word.  His  hand  shook  as  he  carried  her  a  cup, 
and  she  started  violently  when  he  came  with  it,  lost 
the  thread  of  what  she  had  been  saying  to  a  Mrs. 
Somerset,  turned  white,  then  very  red.  Vicky 
sickened  at  the  little  scene,  and  took  care  that  it 
shouldn't  be  repeated. 

The  women  melted  out  by  degrees,  and  then  the 
brougham  came  for  Mrs.  Percival,  who  was  going 
on  an  errand  of  mercy  somewhere.  She  bustled 
away  upon  her  occasions,  and  left  Ingram  stand- 
ing by  the  long  window  and  Sanchia  by  the  tea- 
table,  a  love-lorn  pair,  and  Vicky  hovering  between, 


IN  THE  DRAWING-ROOM  257 

engaged  with  a  belated  arrival  who  had  entered  as 
the  hostess  went  out.  She  must  be  talked  to,  fed, 
must  have  fresh  tea,  etc.  All  this  Vicky  had  to  see 
to,  since  by  now  nervous  tension  had  brought  Sanchia 
to  speechless  misery,  and  was  setting  Ingram  at  the 
quicks  of  his  finger-nails.  He  did  not  move  from 
his  window  or  turn  about.  As  for  Sanchia,  she 
drooped  where  she  stood,  white  and  drawn.  This 
was  a  feverish  ten  minutes  indeed :  Vicky  had  never 
hated  a  woman  so  much  as  this  complacent  Mrs. 
Mate,  one  of  those  simple  persons  who  spend  the 
whole  resources  of  a  call  explaining  why  they  have 
made  it.  "And  as  I  said  to  Mrs.  Bruce,  You  see,  if 
I  don't  get  over  to  Great  Cumberland  Place  to-day, 
I'm  done  for.  Because  we  have  something  for  every 
afternoon  for  the  next  ten  days,  and  there  we  are  in 
August,  and  of  course  we  all  fly  away.  So  I  cut  her 
short — such  an  old,  old  friend,  I  really  thought,  on 
such  a  special  occasion,  there  could  be  no  harm  in 
that;  and  was  rewarded  by  a  peep  at  Mrs.  Percival, 
and  a  nice  long  talk  with  you,  my  dear.  And  your 
sister  —  dear  Sanchia  —  of  courjse.  But  that  you 
should  have  made  me  a  special  brew — when  I 
hardly  deserve  a  how-d'ye-do  —  I  must  tell  Mrs. 
Bruce  about  it  —  indeed  I  must."  Ah,  but  she 
went  at  last,  and  Vicky,  having  bundled  her  out, 
now  stood  by  the  open  door,  wistfully  looking  from 
her  young  sister  to  the  man  by  the  window — pitiful, 
yet  knowing  it  must  be.  Her  eyes  grew  bright  and 
dewy;  she  knew  all  about  it!  But  one  has  these 
things  to  do,  and  must  do  them  for  oneself.     Vicky, 


258  OPEN  COUNTRY 

however,  poising,  doubted  and  felt  her  tears.  San- 
cie  seemed  to  her  so  very  young  for  this  grim  and 
tearing  business.  Then  she  sighed  and  went  softly 
away,  shutting  the  door  behind  her.  I  read  that 
sigh  as  a  prayer  of  Vicky's. 

They  stood  apart,  each  sphered  in  an  emotional 
veil,  the  man  fighting  his  longing,  and  backing 
from  it  inch  by  inch,  the  girl  abandoned  to  her  love, 
the  mystery,  the  wonder,  the  faint  sweetness,  and 
the  pain.  Each  sphered  as  in  a  veil;  yet  apart  as 
they  stood,  between  them  beat  and  flickered  waves 
of  warm  air,  and  what  one  felt  the  other  was  con- 
scious of.     Sanchia  drooped  and  swayed. 

She  shut  her  eyes  and  wavered  where  she  stood. 
She  rested  one  hand  upon  a  table,  the  other  hung 
listless.  There  was  no  fight  in  her  at  all.  What 
must  be  would  be,  and  such  a  death  as  this  was 
strangely  sweet.  But  Ingram  fought,  as  never  in 
his  light-taken  life;  and  he  was  being  beaten,  and 
knew  it,  and  was  now  telling  himself  that  the  thing 
had  to  be.  Every  fibre  of  him  wanted  her,  every 
reason  played  him  traitor,  and  told  him  salvation 
lay  her  way.  He  saw  nothing,  realised  nothing, 
but  that  she  was  behind  him,  throbbing  and  swaying 
there;  that  he  had  but  to  turn  to  her,  and  she  was 
his. 

The  room  seemed  to  darken,  the  air  to  grow 
thick  and  faint.  The  room  swam  and  drew  them 
together.  She  put  her  hand  up  to  her  neck,  fright- 
ened; she  stirred  and  shook  the  tea-things  on  the 
table.     Ingram  turned,  looked  at  her,  and  came  and 


IN  THE  DRAWING-ROOM  259 

stood  by  her.  She  moved  her  eyes  before  her  head, 
slowly,  as  if  fascinated  and  drawn.  Then  she  turned 
her  face  full;  their  eyes  met;  darkness,  a  stifling 
sense,  a  leap  of  the  heart,  and  she  was  in  his  arms. 

He  held  her  fast  there,  but  kept  back  his  head 
that  he  might  see  something  of  her.  Her  face  was 
hidden  in  his  arm,  but  he  saw  her  shoulders  heave. 

''Oh,  God,"  he  said,  ''Sancie,  is  this  true?" 

She  lay  close,  not  answering  him  for  a  while. 
Then  she  said,  her  face  hidden,  "Is  what  true?" 

He  must  have  her  answer,  if  he  drained  it  from 
her.  "This — this — that  you  are  here — and  I — 
that  you  are  mine,  Sancie?" 

And  now  she  looked  up,  and  in  her  pale  face 
was  a  gleam  of  smiling,  triumphant  certainty. 

"Yes,"  she  said,  "it's  true.  I  can't  help  it.  You 
must  be  good  to  me." 

He  almost  laughed  at  her.  "Good!  Good  to 
you!    Oh,  my  dear !" 

"I  suppose  I'm  wicked,"  she  said,  with  her  eyes 
vague  and  brows  arched  high.  "I  suppose  I  ought 
not  to  love  you  so.  But  how  am  I  to  help  myself? 
And  what  ought  I  to  do?" 

"Love  me  for  ever,"  he  said,  and  met  her  lips. 

The  entry  of  a  maid  for  the  tea-things  should 
have  given  them  prudence,  and  her  exit,  leaving 
the  door  ajar,  should  have  been  noticed,  but  was 
not.  Ingram,  in  the  floodtide  of  his  triumph,  and 
Sanchia,  in  her  wild  surrender,  had  no  eyes  but  for 
one  another,  and  no  voice  but  that  of  the  lips.     Thus 


26o  OPEN  COUNTRY 

it  was  that  Philippa,  Mrs.  Tompsett-King,  tallest, 
boldest,  deepest-bosomed  of  the  Percivals,  was  ad- 
mitted at  the  front  door  and  entered  the  drawing- 
room  and  found  them  one  figure.  Their  lips  were 
locked;  she  was  sighing  her  soul  away  upon  his 
breast. 

**Oh,  Melusine!"  she  cried  out  sharply,  and  then, 
as  they  sprang  apart  and  revealed  themselves,  "Ah, 
it  is  Sanchia!" 

"Yes,"  said  Ingram,  doing  all  that  there  was 
now  to  do.     '*Yes,  Mrs.  King,  and  it's  my  fault." 

Mrs.  Tompsett-King,  who  disliked  to  be  called 
Mrs.  King,  put  on  her  most  incisive  manner. 

"One  supposes  so.  And,  Mr.  Ingram,  to  repair 
your  fault " 

"Yes?"  said  Ingram,  eyeing  her  resolutely.  Phil- 
ippa's  answer  was  to  look  straight  at  the  door  and 
then  back  to  him. 

"I  can't  leave  it  at  that,  you  know,"  he  said. 
"But  you  and  I  need  not  discuss  anything.  I  pro- 
pose to  wait  until  Airs.  Percival  returns." 

"So  do  I,"  said  Philippa. 

Ingram  turned  to  Sanchia,  picked  up  her  hand 
and  kissed  it.  "You're  better  out  of  this,  my  dear," 
he  said.  Philippa  sat  in  a  straight-backed  chair  and 
watched  him  openly. 

Sanchia,  very  self-possessed,  asked  Ingram,  "Do 
you  want  me  to  go?"     He  nodded. 

"Yes,  go,  my  dear.  I've  got  to  see  this  through. 
Your  turn  will  come  presently."  Then  she  went 
without  another  word. 


IN  THE  DRAWING-ROOM  261 

Ingram  turned  upon  Philippa,  but  the  lady  put 
up  her  hand.  ''Not  a  word,  if  you  please.  As 
you  hinted  just  now,  rather  broadly,  this  is  no  af- 
fair of  mine.  It  is  not,  so  far  as  you  are  concerned. 
I  can't  turn  you  out  of  another  person's  house,  even 
my  mother's;  but  I  think  you  understand  that  I 
would  if  I  could." 

"I  understand  that  perfectly,"  Ingram  said. 
"I'm  sorry  to  be  inconvenient,  but  it  is  absolutely 
necessary  for  me  to  see  Mrs.  Percival — and  Mr. 
Percival." 

Philippa  looked  him  full  in  the  face.  "In  case 
you  may  decline  to  remove  yourself  at  my  mother's 
request,  I  may  as  well  tell  you  that  my  father  is 
dining  in  the  city  to-night,  and  can  hardly  be  home 
before  ten.  There  will  be  no  men  in  the  house 
until  he  returns.  Therefore,  if  you  wish  to  bully 
women,  you  can  do  it  with  perfect  safety  until  ten 
o'clock — unless,  indeed,  my  mother  should  send 
for  the  police." 

This  speech  gave  Ingram  some  perplexity.  He 
felt  every  shrewd  word  of  it,  and  it  seemed  to  him 
that  the  longer  he  stayed  the  worse  it  might  prove 
for  Sanchia.  He  thought  that  he  might  have 
tackled  Mrs.  Percival,  had  she  been  the  intervener, 
but  that  he  would  have  a  very  poor  chance  with 
her  now.  Yet  the  idea  of  leaving  the  house,  and 
Sanchia  in  it,  alone  to  face  her  judges,  was  intolerable. 

"You  are  not  speaking  very  charitably,  Mrs. 
King,"  he  said  as  civilly  as  he  could;  "I  can  hardly 
believe  that  you  mean  all  that.     You  must  see  that 


262  OPEN  COUNTRY 

I  have  to  explain  myself,  and  at  the  earliest  mo- 
ment." 

"How  do  you  propose  to  explain  yourself?" 
asked  Philippa  squarely. 

Ingram  replied,  "I  think  your  mother  must  find 
that  out  first."  He  stayed  on,  standing  with  his 
back  to  the  fireplace.     No  more  was  said. 

Mrs.  Percival's  latchkey  being  heard,  Philippa 
rose  at  once  and  left  the  room.  Ingram  stood 
doggedly  his  ground.  After  a  terrible  half-hour 
of  it  somebody  came  into  the  room.  Vicky  was 
before  him.     Ingram  glowered  at  her. 

"You  had  better  go  at  once,"  she  said. 

"You  know  I  can't  do  that,"  said  Ingram. 

"I  beg  that  you  will.  You  will  make  things 
worse  than  they  are — if  they  could  be." 

Ingram  set  his  jaw.  "I  must  see  your  mother 
before  I  go." 

"She  refuses  to  see  you.  If  you  stop  here  I  am 
to  send  for  a  policeman." 

"Send  for  him  by  all  means,"  said  Ingram. 
Vicky  rang  the  bell;  and  then  he  went  downstairs. 
In  the  hall  Mrs.  Percival  stood,  bitter,  white,  and 
glittering.  He  should  have  been  able  to  see,  dis- 
tracted as  he  was,  that  she  was  in  that  state  of  feel- 
ing when  anything  he  said  must  have  been  too 
much. 

But  he  began,  "Mrs.  Percival,  in  mere  justice  to 
your  daughter " 

Mrs.  Percival's  eyelids  glimmered.     Her  lips  were 


IN  THE  DRAWING-ROOM  263 

SO  tight  they  almost  disappeared,  ''To  which  of 
my  daughters  do  you  refer?" 

''Why,  to  Sanchia,  of  course,"  he  said. 

"I  have  no  daughter  of  that  name,"  said  Mrs. 
Percival,  and  then  to  a  maid  as  she  came  into  the 
hall,  "Parsons,  the  door." 

At  eleven  o'clock  came  Chevenix,  and  was  told 
that  Miss  Victoria  was  in  the  drawing-room.  She 
met  him  with  a  blenched  face. 

"It's  done,"  she  said.  "You're  too  late.  It's 
done  and  all  found  out.  Philippa's  here,  and 
mamma,  of  course,  and  papa  too.  They're  at  her 
now  in  the  library.  Oh,  poor  little  darling!  Poor 
dear  little  Sancie!" 

Chevenix  swore  softly.  "I'll  kill  Nevile,"  he 
said.     "Damn  him!    I'll  kill  him  for  this." 

"You'll  kill  her  if  you  do,"  Vicky  said.  "I  don't 
know  her  now.     She'll  never  give  him  up." 

"Oh,  but — "  Chevenix  began;  and  Vicky  ran 
on  with  her  tale. 

"She  came  straight  upstairs  and  told  me  about 
it.  She  said,  'Nevile  loves  me,  and  we're  engaged.' 
I  simply  gaped  at  her,  simply  gaped.  She  said,  'I 
know  you  don't  understand  me — but  of  course  he's 
not  married  at  all.  He's  suffered  dreadfully,  and 
I  can  be  of  use  to  him;  and  I  mean  to  be.  They 
may  cut  me  in  pieces,  of  course.  That's  the  only 
way  to  stop  me.  I've  made  up  my  mind.'  She 
spoke  quite  quietly — she's  the  only  cool  person  in 
this  house  just  now.     She's  not  afraid  of  anybody, 


264  OPEN  COUNTRY 

and  went  down  to  those  three  as  if  she  was  going  to 
a  party.  Oh,  isn't  it  extraordinary  to  Hve  with  a 
person  all  your  hfe,  and  find  out  that  you've  known 
nothing  at  all  about  them?  She's  a  new  person 
— she's  not  Sancie  at  all.  She's  a  kind  of  witch  of 
Atlas;  she  makes  goose-flesh  on  you.  You  feel 
her  all  down  your  spine.  I  was  almost  afraid — 
afraid  of  Sancie!" 

''Good  God,"  said  Chevenix  simply. 

''Papa,  you  know,"  Vicky  told  him,  "is  simply 
raving  mad.  He  loves  Sancie  much  more  than 
any  of  us — and  it  seems  to  hurt  him  frightfully. 
He's  in  an  awful  rage  with  her — that's  the  worst 
of  it.  They  all  seem  more  angry  with  her  than 
with  Nevile  Ingram.  I  can't  understand  it — un- 
less it  is  because  she's  so  deadly  cool  about  it.  It's 
really  most  extraordinary — that  bit  of  a  thing — 
two  years  younger  than  me — and  never  the  least 
atom  in  love  before  (I'm  certain  of  that.  It's  not 
her  way  at  all).  Why,  one  has  uncomfortable  scenes, 
you  know,  and  is  very  unhappy  for  a  bit.  Of  course 
one  is;  but  it  all  seems  part  of  the  thing — I  mean, 
you  must  expect  to  have  a  bad  time  when  you've 
had  rather  a  good  one.  But  Sancie  isn't  like  that 
at  all.  She's  so  serious;  she  always  was  very  seri- 
ous. She  means  to  have  her  own  way — somehow. 
I  can  see  it.  No — I  don't  know  what's  to  be  done 
— not  the  very  least." 

"I  do,"  said  Chevenix.  "I  shall  go  for  the  chap. 
He's  queer,  you  know — but  he's  not  a  rascal — 
not  altogether  a  rascal.     He's  been  led  away,  you 


IN  THE  DRAWING-ROOM  265 

know,  Vicky — that's  what  it  is.  His  feelings  took 
him  unawares,  don't  you  see.  But  he's  not  a  rank 
outsider,  you  know.  You  leave  him  to  me.  I'll 
pack  him  out  of  the  country  in  a  week — if  you  can 
hold  on  to  Sancie." 

Vicky  shook  her  head.  ''I  believe  she'd  follow 
him  over  the  water.  You've  no  idea  what  she's 
like  now." 

Their  talk  gloomed  and  died  down  into  dreary 
silence.  But  they  stayed  on  in  the  drawing-room, 
saying  little  or  nothing,  listening  for  the  library 
door.  At  about  half-past  eleven  it  shut  softly, 
and  Sanchia  came  upstairs.  They  heard  the  swish 
of  her  silk  petticoat. 

Vicky  darted  out  to  meet  her.  ''Come  in  here, 
dearest;  do  come  to  us.     We're  all  friends  here." 

But  Sanchia  shook  her  head,  and  went  upstairs. 
''She's  like  a  ghost,"  Vicky  said,  "or  as  if  she'd 
just  seen  a  dead  person." 


CHAPTER  XXIII 

IN  THE  LIBRARY 

Upon  his  return  from  city  revels  at  the  early  hour 
of  ten,  Mr.  Percival's  mood  of  reverie,  induced  by 
sound  digestion,  suffered  a  rough  awakening.  He 
could  not  help  contrasting  the  lights  and  hravas  of 
the  feast,  the  pleasant  drive  home  in  the  well-sprung 
brougham — one  arm  luxuriously  in  the  sling,  the 
half  of  an  excellent  cigar  in  his  teeth,  alimentation 
happily  at  work  and  echoes  of  recently-heard  opti- 
mism still  tingling  in  his  ears;  all  that,  with  the  pity 
and  terror  of  this  home  news.  If  he  looked  back 
wistfully  to  the  great  bannered  hall  as  his  very  home, 
even  to  the  cushioned  carriage  as  a  refuge,  what 
wonder  ? 

He  had  let  himself  in,  after  a  cheery  "Good- 
night, Bakehouse,  good-night  to  you!" — under  his 
arm  snuggled  the  casket  of  sweetmeats  for  his  daugh- 
ters, in  his  mouth  still  the  excellent  cigar;  and  had 
been  met  in  full  hall  by  those  two  pillars  of  his 
house — that  undoubted  pillar,  and  that  pillar  by 
arrogation — his  wife  and  his  eldest  child,  Philippa 
Tompsett-King.  ''Ha,  my  dear!  Ha,  Philippa! 
here's  the  prodigal  father  come  home,"  he  had  said. 
**  Here's — "  and  then,  seeing  their  tense  faces,  he 

had  stopped,  faltering.     "What's  up?    What's  hap- 

266 


IN  THE  LIBRARY  267 

pened?  Good  God,  Kitty,  can't  you  tell  me?" 
He  never  called  his  wife  Kitty  except  in  moments 
of  panic. 

Philippa,  pillar  still  of  his  house  by  her  own  arro- 
gation,  respected  by  him  but  not  loved,  spoke. 
"Mamma  has  had  a  great  shock.  I  have  remained 
with  her.  Will  you  come  into  the  library,  papa? 
We  can  speak  about  it  there." 

Mr.  Percival  had  turned  grey.  "Don't  torture 
a  man,"  he  had  said;  and  then,  ignoring  Philippa, 
"Kitty,  can't  you  tell  me?    Is  it — are  they ?" 

Mrs.  Percival  struggled  with  her  instinct  for  dra- 
matic effect.  It  was  on  the  tip  of  her  tongue  to  say, 
"I  have  lost  a  daughter,"  but  some  providence  re- 
strained her.  "No  one  is  ill,"  she  said.  "Come 
into  the  library,  papa."  They  called  each  other 
papa  and  mamma  now,  rather  than  Tom  and  Kitty. 

"Phew!"  sighed  the  poor  merchant.  "What 
the  deuce  is  all  this  about?"  They  did  their  best, 
these  two  apparitors,  to  make  him  sit  to  a  table — 
it  had  all  been  prepared,  even  to  the  family  Bible. 
But  he  showed  them  so  horror-struck  a  face  that 
no  ritual  was  insisted  on.  He  was  allowed  to  pad 
about  the  room,  his  hands  deep  in  his  pockets. 

Philippa  gave  him  her  story,  which  lost  nothing 
by  plain  recital.  Her  words  were  terribly  simple. 
She  ended  by  saying  that  Ingram  had  proved  him- 
self bully  as  well  as  blackguard,  and  had  only  gone 
when  threatened  with  the  policeman.  Grey,  worn, 
and  old  on  a  sudden,  he  followed  her  hard  lips  with 
his  eyes,  and  pored  upon  her  fine  face  as  if  spying 


268  OPEN  COUNTRY 

out  for  a  grain  of  pity  there.  He  said  not  a  word; 
but  he  felt  deep  in  his  heart  that  he  hated  Phihppa. 
Mrs.  Percival  then  took  up  her  parable.  Bad 
as  Ingram  was,  or  may  have  been  (for  she  showed, 
I  think,  even  now  a  tendency  to  excuse  his  hot 
blood),  Sanchia's  coolness  was  insufferably  worse. 
Her  ''downright  insolence,"  her  deliberation,  in- 
difference to  threats,  adjurations,  prayers,  revealed 
(she  said)  a  state  of  ingrained  wickedness  she  could 
never  have  believed  to  be  possible.  She  confessed 
that  she  was  at  a  loss,  did  not  know  at  the  moment 
what  to  do;  she  was  driven  almost  to  confess  that 
this  chit  of  a  girl  had  been  too  many  for  her;  and 
in  so  confessing  she  betrayed,  far  more  certainly  than 
her  husband  had  betrayed  to  himself,  that  she  hated 
a  daughter.  Looking  desperately  from  one  to  an- 
other, he  could  see  no  mercy  for  him. 

Tom  Percival — old  Tom,  as  they  called  him  in 
the  city — was  a  simple-minded  gentleman,  not  very 
intelligent,  depending  for  his  welfare  largely  upon 
the  state  of  his  stomach  and  the  routine  on  which  he 
had  been  reared.  He  loved  smiling  faces,  a  well- 
heaped  board ;  he  loved  the  brisk  outset  to  the  morn- 
ing's work,  and  the  happy  home-coming,  the  day 
well  done.  He  loved  to  be  coaxed  by  pretty  daugh- 
ters, to  have  his  knees  climbed  and  whiskers  pulled; 
it  was  delightful  to  him  to  know  that  his  pockets 
were  well-lined — that  his  nest  was  warm  for  his 
brood.  He  believed  that  pretty  girls  had  pretty 
hearts  and  souls;    there  was  something  harsh  and 


IN  THE  LIBRARY  269 

jangling  in  the  suggestion  that  they  could  ever  jostle 
in  the  world  and  lose  their  bloom.  There  were 
bad  girls,  lost  girls  out  there,  no  doubt:  he  could  not 
bear  to  think  of  them,  and  he  never  did.  Now  to 
be  told  that  his  loveliest  and  dearest,  his  darling, 
his  youngest,  had  vice — that  she  was  tousled,  rubbed, 
and  smeared;  that  her  sweet  heart  was  hard  in  sin, 
and  her  young  eyes  bold  in  it — to  be  told  this  by 
anybody  would  have  roused  a  fury  of  rage  in  him, 
and  given  him,  nevertheless,  misery  enough.  To 
be  told  so  by  his  wife  and  eldest-born — by  the  wife 
who  ruled  his  house  and  the  daughter  who  ruled  his 
wife — went  near  to  making  an  old  man  of  him,  an 
old,  old  man  who  could  only  whimper  and  wag  his 
silly  hands. 

This,  in  point  of  fact,  is  much  what  he  did.  He 
could  not  digest  the  tale,  didn't  know  whether  he 
''believed"  it  or  not.  He  was  shocked  to  the  soul, 
his  heart  was  sick.  Sin  and  Sanchia!  Vice  and 
his  darling!  He  could  not  confront  such  images, 
he  dared  not.  He  could  have  cursed  these  two 
women  whom  he  feared  so  much;  in  his  weakness 
he  could  have  put  his  hands  to  his  ears  and  let  their 
words  sear  the  air  over  his  head.  What  he  actually 
did  was  to  appeal  to  them,  falteringly  and  feebly, 
to  let  him  see  Sancie — alone. 

''I  can't  understand — what's  the  meaning  of  all 
this?  Pho!  My  Sancie —  Never,  never!  There's 
been  a  dreadful  mistake.  You  may  have  seen — I 
don't  know  what  you  saw,  some  of  you — but — oh, 
you  may  depend  upon  it — a  mistake.     God  help  us 


27©  OPEN  COUNTRY 

all!  God  have  mercy  upon  us — for  Christ's  sake, 
Amen!  Philippa,  my  dear,  I  do  think  you —  You 
never  understood  the  child,  you  knovi^.  There's  a 
good  deal  in  that — I'm  bound  to  remember  it.  She 
was  too  young  for  you — I  think,  perhaps,  mamma 
and  I  might — don't  you  know  ?    We're  her  parents, 

my  dear — and  you've  got  duties " 

*'My  first  duty  seems  to  be  to  mamma,"  said 
Philippa,  "but  of  course  if  you  both  wish  me  to 

go " 

"I  do  not  wish  it,"  said  Mrs.  Percival. 

The  distracted  man  appealed  to  his  wife.  "Kitty, 
if  I  could  persuade  you  to  give  me — just  twenty 
minutes — I'm  perfectly  certain — I'll  stake  my  name 
on  it,  I  could —  We  were  always  such  chums,  you 
know,  my  dear.  She  always  told  me  her  little  se- 
crets— I'm  certain  you're  wrong — I'm  dead  sure  of  it." 

"Then  you  suppose  us  to  be  liars?"  said  Mrs. 
Percival,  no  more  than  annoyed  by  his  misery. 

"No,  my  dear,  no,  no.  Liars,  indeed!  How 
you  take  me  up!  But  I  confess — my  little  Sancie! 
Why,  it's  not  to  be  thought  of!  Look  here,  my 
dear,  I  wish  you'd  let  me  go  up  to  her — I  do  indeed. 
I've  no  doubt  I  can  clear  all  this  up — there's  been 
some  shocking  mistake " 

Mrs.  Perci^'al  was  now  in  a  state  of  white  fury 
which  he  had  been  wise  to  have  spared  her  and 
himself. 

"If  you  wish  to  deny  me  access  to  my  daughter, 
if  you  think  me  a  slanderer,  I  should  be  glad  for 
you  to  say  so  openly.     If  you  think  that— 


)» 


IN  THE  LIBRARY  271 

Philippa  laid  a  hand  upon  her  arm.  "Dear 
mamma,"  she  said,  ''I  am  sure  that  papa  did  not 
imply  such  terrible  things." 

Mr.  Percival  feebly  waved  his  hands,  and  mut- 
tered with  his  dry  lips.  No  sound  came.  Then 
Mrs.  Percival,  passing  him  swiftly,  went  upstairs 
and  unlocked  Sanchia's  door.  "Your  father  will 
speak  to  you,"  she  said,  and  went  down  again  im- 
mediately. With  that  sure  sense  of  dramatic  fit- 
ness, dramatic  effect,  which  never  deserted  her, 
she  took  her  stand,  erect  beside  her  sterner  daughter 
(who  did  these  things  more  naturally).  The  assess- 
ing pair  of  women  stood,  one  on  each  side  of  the 
crippled  man.  He,  prone  before  his  troubles,  leaned 
his  elbows  on  the  table  and  covered  his  face.  I 
doubt  if  he  prayed. 

Sanchia  came  softly  into  the  room,  still  in  her 
gown  of  white  pique,  her  gown  of  a  guilty  afternoon. 
She  looked  slight  and  perilously  frail,  with  her 
dead-white  face  and  great  vague  eyes,  a  creature 
almost  diaphanous,  through  whom  you  might  have 
seen  the  heart  throb  and  burn.  But  in  truth  she 
was  amazingly  strong.  Those  pale  lips  of  hers  had 
been  sanctified,  those  unseeing  eyes  had  seen  their 
salvation.     So  she  faced  her  assize  undismayed. 

She  came  softly  in  and  stood  by  the  table,  rest- 
ing the  fingers  of  one  hand  upon  it.  Her  mother 
and  sister  stood  stiff  as  stone  men  in  Egypt;  Mrs. 
Percival's  eyelids  flickered  in  her  face;  Mrs.  Tomp- 
sett-King's  eyes  stared  wide  before  her  into  a  florid 
portrait  of  Mr.  Percival  as  a  Freemason.     The  poor 


272  OPEN  COUNTRY 

merchant  himself,  unconsciously  comic,  peeped 
through  his  fingers  at  his  darling,  saw  her  a  ghost, 
and  with  a  shiver  of  miserable  shock  shut  his  eyes 
tightly  and  pressed  his  hands  upon  them. 

Sanchia  spoke  first,  after  all,  in  a  voice  carefully 
level  and  quiet. 

"Do  you  want  to  speak  to  me,  papa?" 

Mr.  Percival  groaned  and  looked  up.  He  seemed 
twenty  years  older,  a  silvery  film  showed  on  his  chin. 

"Oh,  Sancie!  Oh,  my  darling!"  Then  he  roared 
in  his  pain.  "Speak  to  me — tell  them  they  are 
damned  liars!"  A  spasm  crossed  Mrs.  Percival's 
rigid  face;   nothing  moved  Philippa's. 

"But,  papa,  it's  quite  true.  I  do  love  Nevile.  I 
told  him  so." 

Mr.  Percival,  with  one  of  those  sudden  jerks  of 
the  mind  from  certainty  to  incredulity,  rounded 
upon  her.  "But  you  can't,  you  know,  my  child! 
It's  preposterous — !  Never  heard  such  stuff  in 
my  life.  How  the  devil  can  you  love  a  man  that's 
married?    These  things  ain't  done,  you  know." 

Sanchia  smiled,  as  if  she  pitied  him.  "How  can 
I  help  it,  papa?  I  do  love  him.  Of  course  I  love 
him.     He  knows  that  I  do." 

Mr.  Percival  stretched  his  arms  out.  "But  he's 
married,  child.  Don't  you  see?"  Sanchia's  com- 
passionate smiling  moved  Mrs.  Tompsett-King  to 
be  incisive. 

"That  appears  to  be  the  pleasurable  part  of  it." 

As  the  culprit  still  smiled,  Mr.  Percival  frowned. 
He  cleared  his  throat.     "Hum!     Sancie,  my  dear, 


IN  THE  LIBRARY  273 

this  is  a  serious  matter.  It's  not  a  thing  to  laugh  at 
— certainly  not." 

*'I  wasn't  laughing,  papa,"  Sanchia  said.  "But 
of  course  I'm  happy  about  it." 

"Happy!"  cried  the  Bench  in  divers  tones.  She 
waited,  then  spoke  unmistakably  her  mind. 

"I'm  happy  because  I  love  him,  and  he  knows 
it;  and  because  he  loves  me,  and  I  know  it.  I  never 
thought  I  could  be  so  happy  as  I  am  now."  Mr. 
Percival  stared  at  the  door,  beyond  speech,  doubting 
if  he  heard.     Mrs.  Percival  took  the  stage. 

"Do  you  wish  to  kill  your  father?"  She  fixed 
Sanchia  with  her  eyes,  but  Sanchia  was  unmoved, 
because  she  was  looking  down. 

"Why  should  papa  be  killed  because  I'm  happy?" 
she  asked  mildly. 

Having  taken  the  stage,  one  must  continue  there, 
it  seems.  Mrs.  Percival  felt  that  one  must.  There- 
fore she  said,  "You  have  broken  my  heart,  Sanchia." 

Sanchia  now  looked  at  her  for  the  first  time. 
Her  eyes  were  thoughtful.  "Yours,  mamma?  I 
think  you  do  wish  me  to  be  unhappy.  Papa's  dificr- 
ent."  Philippa  would  have  leapt  into  the  fray,  but 
that  Mrs.  Percival  put  her  hand  out  sideways  and 
gripped  her  wrist. 

Sanchia  turned  to  her  father.  "I  think,  if  you 
don't  mind,  papa,  I'll  go  to  bed.  I'm  rather  tired 
— and  I  can't  explain  everything  now." 

As  Mr.  Percival  didn't  move  to  look  at  her,  she 
said,  "Good-night,  papa,"  and  went  out. 

When  the  two  ladies  had  said  what  seemed  fitting. 


274  OPEN  COUNTRY 

and  Mr.  Percival  was  left  alone  with  his  wreckage, 
the  first  thing  his  eyes  took  in  was  the  gilded  box  of 
bon-bons  which  the  Greengrocers'  hospitality  had 
heaped  upon  him.  He  had  nursed  it  on  his  knee 
as  the  brougham  bowled  him  homewards;  when  he 
had  reached  Oxford  Circus  he  had  taken  it  from 
its  wrappages  so  that  he  might  the  more  easily 
dazzle  his  Sancie's  eyes  when  she  came  to  him. 
Now  as  he  thought  of  those  simple  pleasures  of  the 
evening,  of  those  pretty  hopes  and  promises,  and 
saw  them  again  against  the  background  of  this 
loss,  he  broke  down  and  sobbed  like  a  child. 


CHAPTER  XXIV 

BRIXTON  AS   A   *' LOCUS  PENITENTI^" 

This  world  is  very  old,  and  very  small,  and  very 
busy;  it  spins  for  its  mere  life,  and  whirls  indus- 
triously round  the  sun,  though  in  Great  Cumber- 
land Place  a  Mrs.  Percival  takes  to  the  stage  and 
declares  that  she  has  no  daughter  Sanchia,  and  a  jolly 
merchant  grows  old  before  his  time,  and  a  pretty 
girl  loses  her  heart  with  praise  and  thanksgiving 
for  the  loss.  In  spite  of  earthquake  and  eclipse  in 
that  well-found  house  on  the  21st  of  July,  the  affairs 
of  the  world  went  rumbling  on.  Summer  lumbered 
out  towards  autumnal  cool  mornings;  leaves  began 
to  fall  in  the  Park.  Mr.  Percival  attended  Board 
Meetings,  and  smoked  cigars;  Nevile  Ingram,  fault- 
lessly dressed,  stalked  Saint- James's  Street,  and 
passed  his  friends  without  knowing  them,  a  blank 
glare  in  his  steel-blue  eyes;  Vicky  rode  in  the  Row, 
esquired  by  Captain  Sinclair  and  Major  Scott;  the 
House  of  Commons  knocked  off  its  arrears  and  the 
Law  Courts  theirs — Scotland  in  full  sight;  and 
Sanchia  Percival  was  teaching  orphan  children  words 
of  one  syllable  in  Acre  Lane,  Brixton. 

How  she  got  there — after  what  miserable  alter- 
cations, what  hyperdramatic  interviews  with  her 
mother,   what   claspings   and   sunderings   with   her 

27s 


276  OPEN  COUNTRY 

fond  old  father — it  were  long  to  tell.  Ingram,  de- 
nied her  door,  denied  the  door  in  The  Poultry, 
wrote  her  letter  after  letter,  but  in  vain.  They 
were  impounded  by  Mrs.  Percival  and  returned, 
addressed  in  a  flowing  hand.  The  really  serious 
impediment  to  compromise  was  this  lady's  sense  of 
drama.  She  had  declared  to  Ingram  that  she  had 
no  daughter  Sanchia.  From  that  moment  it  be- 
came certain  that  she  could  have  none.  But  by 
this  time — on  general  grounds — the  girl's  entire 
family  was  against  her.  Melusine  ignored  her 
peacefully;  lifted  her  out  of  ken  upon  her  fine  eye- 
brows. Hawise,  deep  in  the  country,  was  told 
nothing,  lest  Sir  George  should  be  made  ashamed. 
Vicky,  after  exhausting  herself  in  argument,  washed 
her  hands  of  her  sister,  more  in  sorrow  than  in 
anger.  Even  Chevenix,  the  tried  friend,  the  close 
ally,  was  compelled  to  tell  her  that  nothing  could 
be  done  with  a  girl  who  had  ideas  of  the  sort.  "It's 
not  to  be  thought  of,  Sancie.  You  can't  ask  it 
of  any  one.  I'm  frightfully  cut  up — in  a  way  it's 
my  fault.  But  you  mustn't  ask  me  to  do  anything, 
you  know.  Upon  my  soul,  I  couldn't  to  save  my 
life.  Nevile's  been  at  me  with  letters  over  and 
over  again — but  it's  no  use.  I'm  sorry  to  death, 
old  girl — but  there  you  are.  If  I  can't,  I  can't." 
And  he  was  firm. 

She  was  practically  a  prisoner,  without  one 
friendly  face  but  her  father's;  and  that  was  now 
averted,  purely  in  sorrow,  for  he  was  incapable  of 
anger  against  her.     She  could  write  no  letters  and 


A  "LOCUS  PENITENTI^E"  277 

receive  none.  Neither  her  friend  of  the  Open 
Country  nor  her  lover  of  the  serried  town  could 
serve  her  in  her  strait.  All  she  could  do — and 
that  she  did — was  to  live  on  what  she  had:  hasty 
notes  from  Ingram — "Six  on  Tuesday;  Shelley 
and  you."  ''Do  come  to  Hurlingham  on  Friday 
— the  Lady  too  if  absolutely  necessary."  ''Wear 
one  of  these  on  Monday  night,  and  may  I  have  all 
the  extras,  please  ?  "—some  soiled  dance  programmes, 
some  faded  carnations,  a  little  ring.  She  fed  on 
these;  but  for  medicine  she  had  a  greater  store; 
letters,  rambling,  eloquent,  aspiring,  preposterous, 
hopeful,  adoring,  from  the  Open  Country.  But 
for  them,  she  thought,  her  treadings  would  have 
slipped.  They  only  kept  her  head  above  the  flood 
in  which  she  swirled.  In  them  her  course  seemed 
plain;   by  them  she  steered. 

She  proved,  indeed,  an  apt  pupil  of  the  Philoso- 
pher of  Poverty.  She  was  beggared,  and  happy  to 
know  it;  the  poorer  she  was  the  richer  she  felt. 
They  had  cut  her  off  her  lover,  and  she  loved  the 
longer;  they  had  locked  her  in  her  room;  she 
nursed  him  in  her  heart.  With  Ingram  fast  in  there 
she  was  proof  against  her  mother's  icy  .stabs,  her 
poor  old  father's  tears.  Unearthly  proof,  she  held 
a  level  course.  It  came  to  be  a  matter  of  indiffer- 
ence where  they  put  her  or  what  they  did.  A  locked 
door  in  Brixton?  How  was  that  worse  than  Great 
Cumberland  Place?  Cousin  Letitia?  Could  she 
be  more  unnatural  than  mamma?  She  went  to 
Brixton  quite  simply  and  without  any  farewells,  but 


278  OPEN  COUNTRY 

one.  She  did  contrive  a  whispered  word  to  her 
father.  "Good-bye,  darhng,"  she  had  said,  her 
arms  round  his  neck.  "I  shall  write  to  you,  you 
know,  to  the  city,  and  you  must  answer."  His 
immediate  answer  had  been  a  frantic  embrace. 
**God  bless  my  precious,  God  give  her  to  me  again," 
had  been  all  he  could  say.  She  had  pressed  closely 
to  him,  put  her  arms  round  his  neck,  and  clung  to 
him.  "Darling,  don't  cry;  please,  please,  don't. 
I'm  not  wicked  at  all,  really.  I'm  trying  to  be 
good."  Poor  Mr.  Percival  had  begun  again,  the 
old,  interminable  arguments.  "You  can't  be  good, 
my  dear,  if  you  won't  go  to  church  or  see  a  clergy- 
man." Her  smile  was  very  pitiful  and  very  kind. 
"Darling,  I  can,  and  I  shall  be.  Now,  mind  you 
write  to  me." 

At  the  last  minute — most  characteristically — he 
had  pushed  an  envelope  into  her  hand.  It  con- 
tained a  banknote  for  fifty  pounds.  Emotion  with 
him  most  readily  took  that  form.  The  only  happy 
moment  of  his  burdened  month  had  been  when  he 
got  that  note  from  Wilkins  at  the  bank.  "How 
will  you  take  it,  Mr.  Percival?"  he  had  been  asked, 
and  had  replied,  quite  unusually,  "A  fifty-pound 
note,  Wilkins,  if  you  please.  A  clean  one  if  you 
have  it." 

Acre  Lane,  Brixton,  contained  the  residence  of 
Cousin  Letitia,  Miss  Letitia  Blount,  who  cultivated 
the  theological  virtues  there,  taught  orphans,  main- 
tained herself,  a  maid,  a  canary,  and  a  cat  on  three 
hundred  pounds  a  year.     She  was  Mrs.  Pcrcival's 


A  "LOCUS   PENITENTI^"  279 

first  cousin,  had  had  an  early  disappointment  in 
love,  which  had  turned  her  eyes  to  Evangelical 
Truth,  and  was  now,  at  the  age  of  fifty-seven,  one 
of  the  gentlest  and  most  charming  of  women.  She 
was  slight,  hollow-chested,  and  grey-haired;  she 
was  tremulous,  deprecating,  and  soft-voiced.  She 
hoped  all  things,  believed  all  things,  except  the  possi- 
bility of  evil.  If  sin,  if  crime,  if  clamour  existed  in 
the  world,  it  is  certain  that  she  must  know  nothing 
of  them  if  she  were  to  live.  It  was  said  of  her  once 
that  Miss  Blount  supposed  all  children  to  be  bom 
spontaneously  under  gooseberry  bushes;  and  that 
if  some  were  orphans  (as  her  charges  were),  and 
some  were  not,  it  must  be  because  some  were  found 
by  happy  ladies,  and  some  by  parochial  inspectors. 
The  worst  she  could  say  of  anything  was  that  it 
was  not  quite  nice,  the  best  of  anybody  that  he  was 
a  believing  Christian.  Upon  Sanchia's  consign- 
ment to  her  care  she  had  been  given  to  understand 
that  something  not  quite  nice  had  in  fact  been  in 
the  wind;  but  the  child,  on  arrival,  saw  very  soon 
that  her  cousin  could  not  believe  it,  and  must  not 
be  allowed  to  suppose  it.  All  must  needs  be  for  the 
best  with  Cousin  Letitia,  since  to  her  this  was  the 
best  world  possible  at  present,  a  kind  of  forecourt 
of  the  Second  Temple.  ''Darling  child,  I  do  hope 
you  will  be  happy,"  had  been  Miss  Blount's  greeting, 
after  an  embrace.  "Of  course  I  shall.  Cousin 
Letitia,"  she  had  been  told,  "if  you'll  let  me  do 
something."  Miss  Blount  had  referred  to  the  or- 
phans  who    were    folded    next    door.     "I'll    teach 


28o  OPEN  COUNTRY 

them  spelling,"  Sanchia  promised,  ''if  you  don't 
think  I  shall  corrupt  them."  This  had  been  in  the 
first  ten  minutes  before  she  knew  her  Cousin  Le- 
titia;  the  scare  with  which  the  sarcasm  was  received 
taught  her  better.  ''Corrupt  them,  my  dear!  Oh, 
how  could  that  be  possible?"  Sanchia  had  kissed 
her  and  apologised  for  a  very  bad  joke.  Miss 
Blount,  made  aware  of  a  joke,  produced  a  smile, 
and  said  that  it  was  capital  fun.  Thus  they  came 
to  an  understanding  by  force  of  which  Sanchia's 
private  life  and  public  conversation  had  no  rela- 
tion whatsoever  to  each  other. 

Outwardly  she  was  the  cheerful  instructress  of 
a  score  of  pale-faced,  smartly-combed  children, 
feeder  of  a  canary,  tender  of  a  cat.  She  made  talk 
with  curates  and  district  visitors,  did  woolwork  in 
the  evenings,  or  sometimes  read  The  Sunday  at  Home 
aloud  while  her  Cousin  Letitia  knitted  comforters 
for  railwaymen.  She  did  her  hair  smoothly,  parted 
it  in  the  middle,  dressed  plainly,  was  always  good- 
tempered,  and  never  showed  depression.  Miss 
Blount  called  her  her  ray  of  sunshine,  and  wrote 
long  letters  with  a  very  fine  pen  to  her  cousin  Kitty 
Percival,  which  that  lady  seldom  read  to  the  end. 
She  gave  no  trouble,  seldom  wanted  to  go  out  be- 
yond the  garden,  was  never  late  for  prayers  or  un- 
ready for  bed.  One  would  have  said  of  her  that 
the  punctual  performance  of  everyday  duties  was 
her  only  happiness.  Miss  Blount,  who  saw  in 
method  a  clear  forecast  of  our  heavenly  state,  told 
Mrs.  Percival  that  dear  Sanchia  had  only  wanted 


A  "LOCUS  PENITENTI^"  281 

work  to  prove  herself  a  pattern  to  us  all.  "Her 
very  first  words  to  me,"  she  wrote,  "were  that  I 
must  let  her  'do  something.'  My  good  cousin 
will  forgive  me  if  I  remind  her  that  to  go  about 
doing  good  was  the  divine  ensample  set  us  in  the 
beginning." 

Prayers  over,  good-night  said,  behind  her  chamber 
door  the  other  Sanchia  glowed  and  stood  revealed, 
the  priestess  of  Heavenly  Aphrodite.  Her  splendid 
state  of  Lover  and  Beloved,  of  chooser  and  chosen, 
rayed  out  from  her  heart,  till  she  stood  up  trans- 
figured, glorified,  and  inspired.  She  had  no  un- 
happiness,  no  misgivings;  the  glorious  certainty  of 
her  love  made  any  doubt  of  her  beloved  an  impossi- 
ble impiety.  Here  alone  in  Brixton  stood  she, 
Sanchia,  loving,  loving,  loving;  there  alone  in  Lon- 
don stood  her  Nevile,  loving,  loving.  She  faced  the 
window,  carefully  north-west,  she  stretched  out  her 
arms,  "I  am  yours,  Nevile,  yours,  and  you  are  mine." 
What  else  mattered?  "Though  after  my  skin 
worms  destroy  this  body,  yet  in  my  flesh  shall  I  see 
God." 

Transfigured  by  love  as  she  was,  she  was  also 
translated.  She  became  as  gods,  unconcerned  with 
the  good  and  evil  which  temper  and  try  the  con- 
sciences of  men.  The  little  customs  of  the  world 
seemed  negligible  to  her  now,  lifted  as  she  was  to 
heights  beyond  its  atmosphere.  In  that  star-strewn 
space  where  now  she  soared  men  and  women  could 
not  breathe  at  all.     How  then  could  she  but  pity 


282  OPEN  COUNTRY 

them?  In  such  moods  as  these  she  used  to  write 
to  her  devoted  father,  "I  want  to  tell  you  about 
Nevile  and  me,  because  I  want  you  so  much  to  see 
exactly  how  we  feel  about  it,  and  to  show  you  that 
we  aren't  so  wicked  as  you  think.  We  aren't 
wicked  at  all,  but  simply  love  each  other.  ...  I 
don't  understand  how  his  being  married  can  make 
any  difference  at  all.  He  doesn't  love  her,  and  will 
never  see  her  again.  He  doesn't  injure  her  in  any 
way.  In  fact,  it  is  very  much  the  contrary,  because 
she  has  hurt  him  dreadfully.  She  must  be  a  horri- 
ble person.  .  .  .  You  can  only  love  one  person  at 
a  time,  you  see ;  and  what  can  it  matter  what  person 
you  love  so  long  as  you  are  quite  sure  ?  I  shall  never 
be  able  to  understand  that  it  can  be  right  to  live 
with  a  person  you  don't  and  can't  love.  That  seems 
to  me  just  as  wrong  as  not  to  live  with  a  person  whom 
you  do  love,  and  who  loves  you.  In  each  case  you 
would  be  doing  harm  to  somebody,  and  that  can't 
possibly  be  right.  No  one  thinks  so."  To  such 
impassioned  reasoning  as  this  The  Poultry  could  only 
reply  with  groans,  and  petitions  to  a  darling  child 
not  to  disgrace  us  all. 

How  she  raged!  ''Disgrace  you,  papa  dear!" 
cried  the  fire-fraught  priestess.  ''How  can  my  love 
for  Nevile  be  a  disgrace?  Nobody  told  Hawise 
that  it  was  disgraceful  to  love  George,  or  Philippa 
that  she  was  wicked  to  love  Septimus.  Is  it  because 
poor  Nevile  has  been  treated  shamefully,  and  has 
been  unhappy  for  six  or  seven  years  that  it's  dis- 
graceful ?    Do  you  want  him  to  go  on  being  wretched 


A  "LOCUS   PENITENTI^"  283 

all  his  life?  Or  do  you  mean  me,  papa?  Is  it  dis- 
graceful of  me  to  be  in  love,  or  to  want  to  make 
Nevile  happy?  I  simply  don't  understand  you, 
and  I  wish  I  did,  because  I'm  sure  you  don't  mean 
that."  What  reply  could  The  Poultry  have  but  a 
groan  ? 

But  the  world  ran  its  course  all  the  same.  Au- 
gust emptied  London,  and  the  Percival  household 
went  to  Cornwall  for  its  holidays.  At  the  end  of 
the  month  came  Sanchia's  birthday,  her  twenty- 
first,  and  she  proceeded  to  action. 

She  had  written  to  Senhouse  shortly  after  her 
exile  that  she  was  staying  with  her  cousin  because 
of  trouble  at  home.  A  '^ difference  of  opinion," 
she  had  called  it,  but  had  gone  no  nearer  to  the 
facts.  The  letter,  directed  to  the  care  of  Mr.  Char- 
nock  at  Bill  Hill,  had  been  some  while  in  finding 
its  consignee;  he  had  replied  to  it  at  length  with  an 
impersonal  cheerfulness  which  had  given  her  a  slight 
chill.  She  had  been  used  to  a  more  ardent  service 
from  him,  and  missed  its  warmth.  However,  he 
had  said,  "Don't  fail  to  let  me  know  how  I  can  serve 
you.  You  promised  me  that,  and  if  I  can  put  aside 
all  the  promises  I  made  to  myself,  you  must  leave 
me  yours  for  comfort.  So,  mind  you,  I  shall  rely 
upon  you." 

To  that  she  replied  that  she  had  not  forgotten 
her  promise;  *'in  fact,"  she  said,  "I  am  rather  near 
asking  your  advice  just  now.  I  can't  very  well 
write  about  it,  but  should  like  to  see  you  before 
long — when  I  have  carried  out  what  I  intend  to  do." 


2S4  OPEN  COUNTRY 

Before  he  could  answer  her  she  had  taken  her  own 
counsel  and  left  her  Cousin  Letitia's  sanctuary  for 
the  vague. 

Then  she  wrote  to  him  from  Beauchamp  Place 
to  the  following  effect: — 

"My  dear  Jack,  I  was  sent  to  Brixton  by  my 
parents  because  they  thought  I  was  being  extremely 
wicked;  and  I  have  left  it  now  that  I  am  of  age  be- 
cause I  should  feel  myself  to  be  really  wicked  if  I 
stopped  there  any  longer.  I  have  written  a  long 
letter  to  papa  explaining  everything,  and  shall  go 
to  see  him  in  the  city  directly  he  comes  back.  I 
am  going  to  support  myself,  exactly  as  you  did, 
and  am  learning  type-writing,  shorthand,  and  book- 
keeping at  a  school  in  Chancery  Lane.  This  is 
my  way  of  walking  to  King's  Lynn.  I  hope  you 
won't  disapprove  of  me. 

''You  know  how  troublesome  I  find  it  to  explain 
things,  so  I  won't  try.  I  have  been  very  unhappy 
at  times,  and  so  I  am  now  when  I  let  myself  get  de- 
pressed; but  I  am  very  busy,  and  it  doesn't  often 
happen.  If  you  were  here  you  would  understand 
everything  without  any  difficulty.  Do  you  think 
that  you  could  come  and  see  me?  It  would  be 
awfully  nice  of  you.  I  don't  quite  know  what  to 
do  about  a  friend  of  mine.  I  think  you  met  him 
once.  Mr.  Nevile  Ingram,  his  name  is.  Do  you 
remember,  we  met  you  in  the  Park,  the  day  before 
you  left  town?  That  was  in  June;  and  seems  to 
have  been  years  ago.  I  haven't  seen  Mr.  Ingram 
since  the  21st  of  July,  a  month  before  my  twenty- 


A  "LOCUS   PENITENTI^"  285 

first  birthday."  There  was  more,  but  nothing  nearer 
to  the  point,  about  which,  in  writing,  she  might  have 
circled  for  ever.  But  there  was  a  postscript  which 
said,  "Cousin  Letitia  was  extremely  kind  to  me;  but 
I  felt  that  I  could  not  possibly  stay  there  after  I  was 
old  enough  to  act  on  my  own  judgment.  It  would 
have  been  wrong  to  other  people,  as  well  as  not  fair 
to  me." 

Senhouse  telegraphed,  "Coming  to-morrow,"  and 
she  in  fact  found  him  waiting  for  her  when  she  re- 
turned from  a  visit  to  her  father  in  the  city. 

That  visit  must  be  explained.  Mrs.  Percival, 
on  receipt  of  a  letter  from  her  Cousin  Letitia,  had 
publicly  cast  Sanchia  from  her  bosom.  The  family, 
silent  and  scared,  had  heard  her  do  it,  and  had  ap- 
parently acquiesced.  Only  Mr.  Percival,  the  tor- 
mented merchant,  had  found  guile.  For  three  days 
he  had  borne  about  with  him,  and  upon  him,  his 
deceit.  Then  he  had  received  a  pre-arranged  tele- 
gram from  his  clerk  calling  him  to  the  city.  He 
had  gone  up,  unsuspected;  and  within  six  hours  of 
his  leaving  -home  his  Sanchia  had  been  in  his  arms. 


CHAPTER  XXV 

MB..    SENHOUSE,   HAVING   SOWN,   IS   ENGAGED 

TO  REAP 

She  came  in  about  half-past  six,  her  books  under 
her  arm.  She  was  bright-eyed,  clear-skinned,  and 
looked  thoroughly  self-sufficing.  He  saw  in  a  mo- 
ment that  she  did  not  fail  of  courage.  Her  eyes 
danced  at  the  sight  of  him;  her  hand  was  glad  of 
his. 

"So  this  is  King's  Lynn!"  said  Senhouse,  and  she 
nodded  happily. 

"King's  Lynn.  Mine!  But  on  sixty  pounds. 
I  am  behind  you  there." 

"Oho!  Yes,  you're  a  capitalist.  But  I  think 
it's  as  well  on  the  whole.  You  remember  that  I 
adjured  you  not  to  make  the  journey." 

She  was  thinking  now;  the  first  elation  had  gone. 
Now  she  had  to  make  her  actions  good. 

"Yes,  of  course  I  remember.  I  don't  think  I 
ever  intended  to  follow  you  literally;  I'm  sure  I 
didn't.  But  one  gets  forced  into  corners,  and  has 
to  take  the  best  way  out  one  can.  Generally,  I 
suppose,  there's  only  one  way  out  of  a  comer." 

"There  are  always  two,"  Senhouse  said,  who  was 

watching  her  closely.     "  One  is  to  stay  in  the  corner." 

That  she  admitted,  not  shirking  his  scrutiny. 

286 


MR.   SENHOUSE  REAPS  287 

"I  know.  Of  course  I  thought  of  that.  I  believe 
I  have  thought  of  everything." 

He  said  gravely,  "I  am  quite  sure  that  you  be- 
Heve  it."  She  showed  him  her  gratitude,  and  at  the 
same  time  allowed  for  his  scruples. 

"You  think  I  ought  to  have  waited?  It  was 
almost  impossible — really.  If  you  knew  every- 
thing  " 

He  stopped  her  there.  "Of  course,  I  don't 
know  everything.  Since  your  letter  came  I  have 
surmised  at  large.  Will  you  let  me  put  it  bluntly. 
Your  complications  are,  no  doubt,  of  the  usual 
kind?" 

She  was  pinching  her  lip,  her  foot  on  the  fender. 
"No,"  she  said,  "not  quite  usual.  At  least,  I  think 
not.     N —  Mr.  Ingram  is  married." 

He  had  not  been  ready.  He  was  scared  and 
could  not  help  showing  it.  Yet  all  his  wits  went 
to  work  to  hide  his  agitation. 

"That's  a  complication,  indeed.  I  hope  you'll 
think  of  everything — again."  He  saw  that  he  must 
keep  his  head  at  every  cost. 

Whatever  he  did  with  his,  her  head  was  now 
high.  There  was  no  lip-pinching,  no  watching  of 
toes  working  in  shoe-leather.  Her  eyes  were  those 
of  a  dreamer,  but  her  voice  was  very  steady. 

"When  one  feels  as — when  one  knows  what  I 
know — there  is  no  need  to  think  at  all,  in  a  sense. 
But  of  course  I  have  worked  it  all  out — what  it 
means.  My  people  don't  understand — naturally. 
They  think  me  very  wicked.     Mamma  says   that 


288  OPEN  COUNTRY 

I  am  not  her  daughter,  and  the  others  seem  to  agree 
with  her.  Whatever  happens  it  is  quite  certain 
I  can  never  go  home  again.  Even  papa  thinks  so. 
I  have  just  been  with  him.  He  was  sweet  to  me 
— as  he  always  is.  But  he  doesn't  understand — as 
you  will."  She  looked  to  him  now,  by  a  sudden 
twist  of  mood,  like  a  child  to  its  parent,  confidently, 
as  of  right. 

There  was  no  time  to  think  of  himself.  She 
needed  everything  he  had  to  give.  Everything  he 
had  was  hers ;  but  what  had  he  which  would  serve  ? 

He  kept  silence,  treading  the  room  softly  on  feet 
like  a  cat's,  hands  behind  his  back,  and  his  head 
bent  forwards  and  sideways,  like  that  of  a  bicyclist 
riding  through  rain.  He  was  not  thinking,  he  was 
incapable  of  that;  but  he  was  feeling,  as  never  be- 
fore in  his  life.  She  watched  him  from  her  place 
by  the  fender,  and  presently,  as  he  did  not  speak, 
she  herself  took  up  the  tale. 

She  began  on  a  low  fierce  note,  a  speech  which 
ran  from  scorn  to  wailing,  and  so  on  to  a  long  musi- 
cal cry  of  pure  passion,  indescribably  holy  to  him, 
and  touching.  "She — !  To  have  love  given  her — 
his  love — his  name — hateful,  wicked,  a  devil,  not  a 
woman.  He  was  young  when  he  married  her — he 
was  as  young  as  I  am.  But  she  took  his  love  and 
threw  it  away.  In  less  than  a  year  she  left  him — 
with  some  one  else —  He  has  never  seen  her  again 
— for  eight  years — but  he  knows  what  she  has  done. 
It  has  been  torture  to  him;  it  has  changed  him. 
He  thought,  until  a  little  while  ago,  that  he  could 


MR.   SENHOUSE  REAPS  289 

never  be  happy  again.  He  hasn't  told  me  what  he 
has  done — to  forget  her  and  himself — but  I  know, 
I  know — of  course  I  know  how  he  has  had  to  live." 

He  heard,  he  felt  the  trembling  of  her  voice,  and 
knew  that  her  whole  frame  was  throbbing  with  her 
passion.  Look  at  her  he  dared  not  yet.  Alas,  for 
her  youth!  That  such  as  she  should  champion  such 
as  Ingram  must  be. 

"You  told  me  once,"  she  went  on,  ''that  I  might 
live  so — in  such  a  way — as  to  be  useful  to  other 
people;  you  said  that  the  Woman's  Art  was  to  ex- 
press herself.  You  told  me  that  I  had  it  in  me  to 
be  such  an  artist.  I  don't  think  I  dared  believe  it, 
because  I  knew  that  you  were  always  too  kind  to 
me,  and  thought  too  highly  of  me.  But  then — 
afterwards — I  began  to  see,  couldn't  help  seeing, 
that  I  did  make  Nevile  happier,  and  quieter.  He 
told  me  so,  but  I  could  see  it  without  that.  He 
used  to  come  and  read  with  me — things  which  you 
taught  me  to  understand  and  to  value.  Things 
that  he  used  to  do — that  amused  him  once — bored 
him  afterwards.  He  used  to  accuse  himself  some- 
times, and  then  tell  me  what  he  meant  to  do  at 
Wanless,  where  he  lives — all  his  duties  to  his  people 
there.  I  couldn't  help  seeing  that  I  had  been  some 
use  to  him,  and  so  I  felt  grateful  to  you  for  having 
shown  me  what  I  could  do.  .  .  .  He  told  me  that  he 
had  liked  me  from  the  very  first;  but  I  don't  know 
that  I  liked  him  until  Christmas  Day,  when  we  went 
to  church,  and  received  together.  ..." 

Senhouse    too    remembered    a    Christmas    Day, 


290 


OPEN  COUNTRY 


when  he  in  Cornwall  watched  her  bowed  head  in 
London,  and  followed  every  stave  of  her  prayers. 

"It  was  in  the  spring  that  he  told  me  he  must 
leave  me,  and  I  couldn't  understand  what  he  meant. 
I  saw  that  he  was  unhappy  about  it,  but  I  wasn't 
— very — because  I  knew  then  that  I  liked  him,  and 
guessed  that  he  liked  me.  I  saw  you  afterwards 
and  wanted  to  talk  to  you  about  it,  but  I  couldn't 
— for  all  sorts  of  reasons.  .  .  . 

"Then  I  came  back  to  town,  and  he  told  me  all 
about  it." 

She  stopped  here,  smiling  pitifully.  With  such 
great  things  behind — such  splendours  of  sea  and 
sun-painted  sky — to  be  concerned  about  so  small  a 
thing  as  this  of  Nevile's  entangled  feet.  Oh,  how 
absurd  they  were,  who  did  not  love!  As  if  one 
could  not  adore  the  miracle  of  twilight  because  of 
a  worm  writhing  on  the  ground ! 

"My  people,  it  seems,  had  known  it  before,  and 
thought  nothing  about  it.  They  let  him  come  to 
see  me  just  the  same.  That's  what  I  don't  under- 
stand about  mamma.  She  trusts  you,  and  then, 
suddenly,  believes  nothing  you  can  say.  But  I 
know  now  that  she  always  hated  me — though  she 
used  to  like  Nevile — and  now  she  hates  him  because 
of  me,  I  hope  I  shall  never  see  her  again.  She 
makes  me  shudder  all  over.  I  always  shudder  at 
hatred  and  coldness.  I'm  afraid  of  her;  she  makes 
me  doubt  God.  But  it  makes  no  difference,  of 
course.  One  has  one's  duty  so  clear  before  one 
sometimes — that  no  cruelty  could  possibly  matter. 


MR.   SENHOUSE  REAPS  291 

Papa's  not  at  all  like  that.  Papa  loves  me — and 
I  love  him.  I  can't  bear  to  hurt  him — he  knows 
I  can't.  But  if  I  can  make  Nevile  hapj)y,  and  make 
him  good — how  can  I  help  myself?" 

Before  he  could  voice  either  his  adoration  or  his 
pain,  she  had  entered  into  the  tideway  of  her  passion. 

''They  say  that  I  disgrace  myself — but  do  I  care 
for  that?  I  can  help  him,  I  can  make  him  good — 
he  has  told  me  so — I  know  it.  Why  do  people  love 
each  other — and  have  such  beautiful  thoughts,  if 
they  are  wicked  ?  Why  is  it  that  to  be  in  love  makes 
you  religious,  happier  in  church  than  an)^where, 
and  interested  in  things  which  you  don't  notice  at 
all  when  you  are  just  playing  about  in  the  world — 
in  society — and  at  parties  and  things  like  that?  It's 
not  only  my  own  case — it's  Nevile's  too.  We  like 
the  same  things — simple,  natural  sort  of  things, 
like  saying  prayers,  and  reading  poetry,  and — all 
the  things  that  you  like.  It  makes  us  more  like  you, 
you  know;  and  no  happiness  we  have  got  out  of 
society  has  ever  been  half  so  dear.  I  know,  I  know 
what  our  lives  would  be — together.  You  told  me 
yourself  that  no  harm  could  come  to  a  good  woman — 
and  I  am  not  at  all  afraid  of  Nevile.  How  could  I 
be  ?  He  loves  me.  And  what  does  the  world  matter 
to  us  if  we  have  each  other  and  feel  like  that  ?  What 
can  anything  matter  if  your  conscience  is  clear? 
Nothing  will  ever  make  me  believe  that  it's  dis- 
graceful to  make  a  man  happy  and  good.  And  I 
can  do  that;  he's  told  me  so — and,  besides,  I  know  it." 

She  stopped  suddenly,  in  full  career.     Beside  this 


292  OPEN   COUNTRY 

certainty,  not  to  be  voiced,  all  protestations  and  proofs 
seemed  vain.  But  though  her  tongue  was  still,  the 
jare  which  had  urged  and  now  checked  it  went  beat- 
ing through  her,  and  made  her  beauty  glow — with 
an  intensity  at  once  warm  and  grave.  To  Senhouse, 
loving  her  without  hope  or  earthly  desire,  she  seemed 
a  thing  enskicd :  a  message,  not  a  woman.  It  would 
have  been  to  him,  at  that  moment,  an  impiety  out 
of  all  belief  to  question  or  to  doubt. 

Senhouse,  a  poet,  loved  her  and  saw  her  in  heaven, 
but  Senhouse,  the  man  of  humours,  recognised  her 
for  a  girl  in  love.  Adoration  strove  in  him  with  most 
gentle  pity;  admiration  with  deadly  fear.  Igno- 
rant, was  she  ?  Fearing  nothing  because  she  noth- 
ing knew?  Maybe  so:  yet  how  noble  was  an  igno- 
rance like  hers!  Ah,  how  could  he  fail  to  see  her 
nobility,  that  would  throw  all  to  the  winds  for  the 
sake  of  a  man  ?  And  how  could  he  fail  to  be  afraid, 
knowing  the  man?  He  had  seen  him  but  once,  for 
a  few  minutes,  but  had  known  him  for  what  he  was 
at  a  glance.  You  walk  the  world's  ways  for  a  few 
years,  and  meet  Ingrams  by  the  score.  Your  clam- 
ative  sort — born  in  the  purple — your  ask-and-have, 
your  lord-of-the-earth,  to  whom  women,  dogs,  horses, 
seats  at  feasts,  acres  and  ease  fall  as  a  matter  of 
course.  Was  there  anything  in  his  visible  world 
which  Ingram  had  seriously  wanted  and  had  not 
had  ?  Nothing.  Had  he  yet,  any  single  time,  seri- 
ously wanted  a  thing  worth  having?  Never  once, 
never  once.  Had  he  ever  curbed  a  rage,  stifled  a 
lust,  smothered  a  need,  that  his  neighbour's  state 


MR.   SENHOUSE  REAPS  293 

might  be  the  more  gracious?  Not  he.  And  was 
this  inspired  creature,  this  pure  embodiment,  this 
holy  thing  to  be  thrown  out  to  him  because  he  called 
for  it?    Pity  the  poet,  pity  the  man  of  humours. 

No  harm  can  ever  come  to  a  good  woman.  No; 
but  horrible  hurt  is  done  the  world  when  such  an 
one  is  put  in  peril.  The  moral  sense  is  shocked, 
the  standard  falls;  if  the  flag  flies  still  it  flies  as  a 
braggart  and  a  liar.  Women,  in  his  view,  are  so 
infinitely  higher  in  the  moral  scale  than  men,  being 
capable  of  lengths  of  enthusiasm  and  sacrifice  which 
men  never  even  become  aware  of,  that  mere  honour 
is  stultified  if  such  a  danger  is  allowed.  The  state 
of  a  man  becomes  revolting  if  such  a  danger  is  possi- 
ble. Apart  from  the  pity  of  the  thing,  there  was 
that  to  be  put  from  the  man's  side.  Was  it  possible 
that  Ingram  himself  could  suffer  this  exquisite  crea- 
ture, this  Temple  of  Beauty,  to  become  a  vessel  for 
his  common  use,  or  a  medicine  for  his  disordered 
soul  ?  The  thing  had  but  to  be  put  to  him,  surely, 
Senhouse  felt,  to  be  exhibited  as  monstrous  offence. 

He  saw  now  in  his  bitterness  what  his  own  part 
had  been.  He  had  seen  her  to  be  lovely  and  had 
told  her  she  was  lovely ;  he  had  known  her  for  a  saint 
and  inspired  her  to  be  saintly.  She  was  now  on 
fire  to  be  to  Ingram  all  that  she  had  been  to  him- 
self. And  how  could  he  tell  her,  You  have  been  a 
Spirit  of  God  to  me,  but  can  never  be  so  to  him? 
He  is  not  worthy  of  you,  though  I  am  worthy  ?  How 
say  that?    He  could  have  laughed  aloud  in  his  ag- 


294  OPEN  COUNTRY 

ony  as  he  put  the  question  to  himself.  Yet  the  dilem- 
ma was  very  real.  He  was  to  learn,  it  seems,  that  if  you 
tell  a  lady  she  is  a  Goddess  it  is  not  possible  for  you 
afterwards  to  complain  that  she  acts  like  a  Goddess, 
to  whom  "good"  and  "evil"  are  empty  words,  as 
empty  as  "pity"  and  "terror"  to  a  thunderstorm. 

Here  was  the  dilemma  in  the  which  he  writhed: 
Sanchia  Percival  walked  a  Goddess  upon  earth,  or 
she  walked  there  a  simple  maid.  If  she  walked  a 
Goddess,what  had  he  to  say  against  her  deliberate  pur- 
pose ?  If  she  did  not,  how  had  he  been  fool  enough  to 
think  so,  or  knave  enough  to  tell  her  so  ?  Had  he  done 
her  reasonable  honour  by  his  testimonies,  or  had  he 
lured  her  on  to  dishonour  and  shipwreck  ?  You  may 
blame  him  if  you  must,  pity  him  if  you  can. 

I  don't  suggest  that  all  these  thoughts  ran  orderly 
through  his  brain  at  this  moment  when,  her  speech 
failing  her,  he  stood  by  her  side,  her  hand  taken  to 
his  lips,  his  eyes  wistfully  upon  her  bent  head. 
Rather,  they  had  whirled  and  run  riot  in  him  through- 
out her  apology,  not  forming  themselves  into  lines  of 
attack,  but  fighting  him  singly,  out  of  ambushes,  run- 
ning in  and  stabbing  where  they  found  him  exposed. 
He  felt,  indeed,  standing  there  hand-fasted,  adoring 
her  youth,  a  singular  fool;  but  her  need  was  so  much 
greater  than  his  plight  that  he  could  not  afford  to  think 
of  anything  but  her. 

Standing  above  her  there,  her  caught-up  hand  to 
his  lips,  his  adoration  spurred  back  his  loyalty,  and 


MR.   SENHOUSE  REAPS  295 

his  loyalty  called  up  his  faith.  He  now  came  to 
see  her  courage  so  far  above  his  own,  the  pupil  so 
high  above  the  master,  that  he  was  ashamed  of  his 
fears.  No  harm  ever  yet  came  to  a  good  woman. 
No,  and  here  was  a  woman — woman  ?  a  young  girl, 
rather,  on  the  threshold — ready,  unarmed,  to  prove 
his  words.  All  honour  to  her,  even  to  mortal  risk! 
He  was  a  Stoic  by  temper  and  training,  to  whom  the 
rubs  of  the  world  upon  the  body  seemed  as  nothing 
against  the  serenity  of  the  soul.  It  would  have  been 
rank  disloyalty  to  doubt  of  her  soul:  must  she  not 
then  endanger  her  fair  body  ? 

She  looked  up  presently  into  his  face;  her  far- 
seeing,  serious  eyes  sought  deeply  into  his.  "Well," 
she  said.     "Speak  to  me.     Tell  me  what  you  think." 

He  said,  "I  think  now  as  I  thought  when  I  saw 
you  first,  long  ago.  Do  you  remember  the  lily- 
pond?" 

Her  thoughts  had  been  far  away  from  that,  but 
she  turned  them  at  once,  remembered,  and  smiled. 
"Yes,  of  course  I  do.  But  what  did  you  think  of 
me  then?" 

"I  saw  you,  in  your  white  frock,  setting  your 
foot  into  bottomless  black.     And  I  was  afraid." 

Hurt  filled  her  eyes  with  tears,  she  withdrew  her 
hand.  "I  never  thought  you  would  speak  to  me 
hke  that." 

He  caught  her  hand  again.  "Don't  turn  away 
from  me.     Think.     What  did  I  do?" 

After  a  moment  he  saw  the  smile  steal  over  her 
lips.     "You  floated  me  on  your  raft — your  bed." 


2q6  open  country 

He  kissed  what  he  held  of  her.  "I  must  float 
you  again.     I  dare  do  nothing  else." 

''Yes,"  she  said.  "I  knew  you  would.  But 
you  floated  yourself  too — on  the  pond.  And  it  was 
you  who  pulled  most  of  the  weeds  off  the  lilies." 

He  laughed  rather  ruefully.  "Did  I?  WeU,  it's 
a  man's  business  to  do  most  of  the  weeding — since 
women  bear  the  flowers.  But  the  analogy  won't 
hold — we've  got  to  the  end  of  it.  This  time  it  is 
you  who  must  float." 

She  glowed,  triumphant.  "'Yes,  I  know.  But 
you  win  have  to  launch  me." 

"Ah,  my  dear,  my  dear,"  he  said,  "and  then  I 
must  stand  and  watch  you  from  the  shore." 

Her  mood  was  now  merry.  "You'll  be  like  a 
hen  with  a  brood  of  ducklings — exactly." 

"More  exactly  than  you  think,"  he  told  her. 

"Dreadfully  fussy  with  your  wings,  and  poking 
your  head  like  a  snake.  You  don't  believe  that  I 
can  swim,  you  know — not  in  the  least." 

"Spare  me,  my  dear,"  he  said,  with  a  wry  smile. 
But  she  was  in  a  mood  of  little  mercy. 

"I  don't  see  why  I  should.  I  think  the  hen  on 
the  bank  is  an  untrustful  bird.  You  don't  trust 
me — your  own  pupil.     You  can't  deny  it." 

"Queen  Mab,"  he  said,  "sit  down  and  let's  have 
it  out.  It  isn't  you  I  distrust,  but  the  world  you 
live  in.  It's  a  grudging,  uncharitable  world.  It's 
not  fit  for  the  likes  of  you.  Remember  that  it  burned 
Joan  of  Arc,  and  spat  at  Charlotte  Corday  as  she 
went  to  her  death.     Do  you  think  it  would  aflow 


MR.   SENHOUSE  REAPS 


297 


for  your  gallantry,  or  put  down  your  deeds  to  single- 
ness of  mind  and  a  pure  heart?  Do  you  know 
what  would  be  said  of  you?  Thank  God  you  don't. 
And  you  never  shall  if  I  can  help  it.  These  things 
hurt,  you  know:  the  mud  they  throw  may  be  clean 
stuff — the  whole  earth  is  clean,  as  far  as  that  goes 
— but  the  act  is  brutal,  the  intention  is  vile,  and 
brutality  and  obscenity  bruise  and  sear  you.  Per- 
haps you  are  strong  enough  to  hold  your  head  high 
against  them  all — I  believe  that  you  are — but  your 
heart  must  needs  harden  under  the  trial,  and  I 
can't  bear  to  think  of  it.  You  would  be  shocked 
beyond  repair.  They  would  deny  you  common 
civility,  they  would  leer  in  your  face ;  you  would  be 
denied  your  God  in  His  Church.  You  say,  These 
things  are  nothing,  and  remind  me  that  you  make 
your  own  God  and  your  own  lover.  That's  true — 
but,  my  beloved,  so  does  he — so  does  your  Nevile 
Ingram.  He  makes  you  too,  out  of  what  he  has 
and  what  he  finds.  How  is  he  going  to  take  ig- 
nominy, ostracism?  How  is  he  going  to  take  you, 
who  will  get  the  worst  of  it — after  our  courteous 
fashion?  Don't  think  I  am  belittling  him— how 
could  I  think  ill  of  a  man  who  loves  you  ?  I  know 
nothing  of  him  but  that;  and  God  knows  that's  in 
his  favour.  I  am  sure  that  you  could  weather  the 
gale — I  wonder  if  he  could,  though.  I  judge  what 
you  propose — personally — by  what  I  think  of  mar- 
riage. It's  the  act  of  common  desire,  man  for  maid, 
maid  for  man,  which  is  the  Sacrament,  not  the  Church 
rite.     I  don't  object  to  the  Church  rite  as  such.     Of 


298  OPEN  COUNTRY 

course  I  don't.  It's  the  legal  implication,  and  the 
moral  that  I  think  so  wicked.  But,  take  it  as  you 
will,  there's  the  sanction  of  the  Church,  with  use 
and  wont  behind  it.  These  things  at  present  weigh 
much  with  the  world.  Can  you  ask  me,  loving  3^ou 
as  I  do,  to  put  you  so  far  in  the  wrong  in  the  world's 
eyes  ?  No,  no,  I  couldn't  do  that.  It's  not  possible. 
I  told  you  that  I  could  never  marry  a  woman  that 
I  loved,  because  I  feel  that  it  would  insult  her. 
That's  my  own  feeling,  and  allow  me  to  say  that 
though  you  had  my  whole  soul  at  your  feet — as 
you  have  had — I  would  sooner  let  it  lie  there  than 
ask  you  to  marry  me,  or  to  do  anything  else.  Be- 
cause I  love  you  I  must  give  up  all  hopes  of  you. 
And  so  I  did,  long  before  you  showed  me  that  I 
could  have  no  hopes  at  all.  That's  true.  But  I 
must  ask  you  this  plainly:  Does  Ingram  think  like 
that?  And  do  you?  Would  he  not  marry  you  to- 
morrow if  he  could?  Would  you  not  marry  him?" 
He  waited  for  her  answer,  and  got  it  only  from  her 
eyes.  These,  after  a  moment,  were  lifted  to  his  own, 
looked  deeply  into  them,  and  gave  him  what  he  had 
known  before. 

"You  are  the  soul  of  truth,"  he  said,  "and  have 
answered  me.  I  don't  know  that  I  need  say  any 
more  about  that." 

But  she  told  him  plainly  that  there  was  more 
to  say.  "You  have  not  answered  me  at  all,"  she 
told  him.  "Wc  love  each  other,  and  he  needs  me. 
I  know  that.     Can  I  deny  him  what  he  needs?" 

Senhouse  was  very  grave.     "I  can't  answer  you. 


MR.   SENHOUSE   REAPS 


299 


I  ought  not  to,  in  any  case — but  the  fact  is  that  I 
can't  do  it.  If  he  had  put  the  question,  I  could 
answer  him — and  so  I  shall,  I  believe."  He  had 
added  that,  as  if  talking  to  himself;  but  it  lifted 
her  head  quickly. 

"What  do  you  mean?  Do  you  mean  that  you 
shall  go  to  Wanless?" 

"Is  that  where  he  lives?    Yes,  I  think  I  shall." 

She  flushed  all  over,  and  her  eyes  grew  bright. 
"I  don't  think  you  ought  to  do  that." 

"I  think,"  he  said,  "that  I  shall  ask  your  leave 
to  go  there." 

She  looked  away,  put  her  chin  in  her  hand,  and 
thought  intensely.  Leaning  so,  she  asked  him 
between  her  teeth,  "What  should  you  say  to  him 
if  you  went  there?" 

"Very  much,"  he  replied,  "what  I  have  said  to 
you — only  I  should  put  it  differently." 

"He  would  be  angry,"  she  said. 

"He  would  be  rightly  angry,"  said  Senhouse. 
"It  would  be  insufferable,  but  I  want  to  do  it  all  the 
same." 

She  tried  coaxing  first,  very  womanlike.  "Why 
should  you  put  yourself  in  a  false  position  for  my 
sake?    Why    should    you    let    Nevile    think    you 


a " 


"A  prig?"  asked  Senhouse.  "A  busybody? 
My  dear,  that's  my  punishment.  I've  got  to  eat 
my  slice  of  pie." 

"What  do  you  mean?"  she  asked  him,  frowning. 

"I've  been  an  awful  fool,  you  see,"  he  told  her. 


300  OPEN  COUNTRY 

"I  begged  you  not  to  walk  to  King's  Lynn,  and 
thought  that  was  enough.  But  it  wasn't.  I  had 
shown  you  the  road  too  clearly.  Now,  so  far  as 
I  can,  I  have  to  get  you  back  again." 

She  rose  and  looked  down  at  him.  She  was  very 
pale.  ''I  ask  you  seriously  not  to  go  to  Wanless. 
There  are  many  reasons " 

"Don't  I  know  that?"  he  said,  shaking  his  head, 
"There  are  hardly  any  reasons  why  I  should.  And 
yet  there  is  one." 

She  hesitated,  and  her  colour  came  back.  She 
was  now  blushing.  "I  have  one  reason  which 
perhaps  you  won't  understand.  If  you  go  there, 
Nevile  may  think — might  think — that  you  came 
from  me." 

"I  had  thought  of  that,  of  course,"  he  said.  "I 
can  reassure  you.  He  won't  think  so,  because 
now  I  see  how  far  I  have  to  go  on  my  humiliating 
road.  I  have  to  incur  your  anger.  I  have  to  lose 
your  affection."  He  couldn't  bear  to  look  at  her. 
"So  be  it!     It's  logical  enough." 

They  were  both  in  a  high  state  of  tension.  Her 
fluttering  nostrils,  her  fixed  eyes  showed  the  strife 
within  her  breast.  "If  you  think  fit  to  do  what  I 
have  begged  you  not  to  do — "  she  began  to  say, 
and  then  she  broke  down.  "Don't  give  me  up," 
she  pleaded,  and  held  out  her  hands.  He,  with  a 
short  cry,  was  before  her,  and  took  them  both. 

"Oh,  my  blessed  one,"  he  said.  "Now  I  can 
go  through  Hell's  gate  for  you." 

He  kissed  her  two  hands,  turned,  and  left  her. 


CHAPTER  XXVI 

IN    WHAT    MANNER    MR.    SENHOUSE    MADE    SO    BOLD 

He  caught  the  night  mail  to  Felsboro',  and  arrived 
in  that  stone-built  outpost  of  the  hills  at  three 
o'clock  in  the  morning.  Wanless  Park  was  nine 
miles  distant,  deep  in  the  fells,  they  told  him.  He 
trudged  wet  roads,  gossamered  sheep-tracks,  skirted 
ferny  hollows  or  brimming  becks,  climbing  steadily, 
husbanding  his  breath.  The  exercise  was  grate- 
ful, for  his  mind  was  ill  at  ease.  He  thought,  as 
he  sat  presently  amid  boulders  on  a  height  and 
waited  for  the  dawn,  that  if  he  wasn't  a  fool  it  couldn't 
be  for  want  of  telling  himself  what  a  fool  he  was. 

The  laggard  October  sun  came  palely  up  and 
made  the  mountain  gloom  more  sensible.  A  great 
blanket  of  fog  hid  the  glen  where  Wanless  lay, 
folded  between  the  breasts  of  the  hills.  The  poet 
in  him  was  acold;  the  man  of  humours  smiled 
askance.  ''Here's  rue  for  you,  Senhouse,"  he  told 
himself;  ''your  rhapsodies  sevenfold  back  into 
your  bosom.  Rhapsody  incarnate,  and  her  own 
singer,  she  was — fired  and  ardent  at  her  racing- 
mark — ready  to  spring  away  at  the  word!  'Tiptoe 
for  a  flight!'  my  gallant,  dauntless  one!  Mon- 
strous in  me  to  doubt  her — a  shame  to  my  own 

301 


302 


OPEN  COUNTRY 


professions.  Mine  is  the  gran'  rifiuto — she  will 
never  shirk.  I  know  that,  and  could  worship  her 
for  it.  She's  right,  she's  right — of  course  she's 
right.  She,  Sanchia,  arrayed  in  her  white  armour 
of  innocence — Innocence,  O  God,  and  twenty-one! 
— against  the  prestige  of  this  world.  Safety,  Sanc- 
tion, the  Uses  of  five  thousand  slavish  years;  Church 
and  World,  Gods  and  Devils,  priests  and  people, 
home,  law,  order,  Bible  and  prayer-book — rank 
upon  rank  of  them,  crosses,  eagles,  flags,  and  stand- 
ards up — against  young  Sanchia  the  white,  armed 
only  with  her  heart  on  fire.  What  a  battle — the 
myriad  against  One — and  I  range  with  the  hordes 
against  my  saint! 

"How  shall  we  do,  the  myriad  of  us?  Shall  we 
trample  her  out?  Not  so:  we  have  a  way  more 
excellent.  We  stare  her  cold — till  she  stare  at  us 
again  out  of  her  frozen  eyes,  stark,  stiff,  her  mouth 
still  open  with  that  Oh!  of  her  first  shock.  We 
stare  long  and  steadily,  we  spare  no  detail.  Ah! 
we  say,  *A  wanton!  curious!'  We  point  her  out 
— mud-stains  (of  our  own  making) ;  a  tear  in  her 
gown  (we  clawed  her  there) ;  a  brazen  eye  (whose 
use  we  taught  her);  a  flushed  cheek  (fresh  from 
our  flouts) — ay,  ay!  a  wanton  indeed!  Hold  your 
robe  back,  priest,  lest  she  soil  you.  Use  your 
handkerchief,  dear  madam,  cover  your  nose.  Eyes 
right,  children,  here's  no  sight  for  you.  Gentle- 
men, please,  we  will  sing  to  the  praise  and  glory  of 
God  ^Thc  Voice  tJmt  breathed  o'er  Eden.''  That's 
how    we    do.     It's    a    lingering    death — that    kind. 


MR.   SENHOUSE  MAKES  BOLD  303 

She  defies  us.  Her  Oh!  is  long  coming;  for  at  first, 
look  you,  she  laughs.  God  help  us  all,  the  child 
is  happy.  What's  her  joy  then?  Service!  She 
thinks  she  is  serving.  'He  loves  me,'  she  says,  'and 
I  love  him.  He  needs  me,  and  I  give  myself.  I 
can  make  him  happy — I  can  make  him  good.  He 
told  me  so — and  I  know  it.'  Impiety,  which  is 
worthy  of  death.  She's  a  publican,  she's  a  sinner. 
Courage,  ye  hosts  of  man!  Shut  your  New  Testa- 
ments— put  'em  away.  Stare  on,  point  your  fingers, 
nudge  each  other,  say,  'Look,  look!'  Look  long 
enough,  nudge  hard  enough,  mouth  your  scorn; 
she'll  gasp  her  little  '  Oh ! '  presently,  and  freeze  from 
within — from  the  shocked  heart  to  the  parted  lips. 
There — what  did  I  tell  you?  She's  gone  grey;  her 
lips  are  cold.  Lot's  wife!  No,  but  she's  a  pillar  of 
ice — a  frozen  Oh!  that  was  once  a  young  girl  in 
love." 

He  had  lashed  himself  to  frenzy,  ranging  that 
soaked  mountain-top.  Slowly,  as  he  shook  himself 
free  of  his  rage,  the  fog-bank  parted  and  steamed 
upwards.  There  below  him,  grey  in  the  heavy 
trees,  he  saw  Wanless  Hall  and  blue  smoke  from 
more  than  one  chimney.  Terraced  and  trim  be- 
fore it  the  gardens  ran  down  to  Wan  river,  nobly 
behind  it  lay  Wanless  Park — massed  oaks  and  elms, 
brackened  glades,  feeding  deer,  a  herdsman  cross- 
ing the  carriage-drive,  his  dog  at  his  heels. 

Senhouse  counted  the  smoking  chimneys.  There 
were  three.  "The  kitchen,  the  hall,  and,  since  the 
morning's  chilly,  a  fire  in  my  young  lord's  dressing- 


304 


OPEN  COUNTRY 


room.  What's  the  time?  Eight  o'clock,  I  put  it. 
He  must  have  another  two  hours.  I'll  go  and  forage 
for  breakfast." 

He  descended  into  the  valley  road,  got  a  hunch 
from  a  cottage,  and  washed  it  down  with  burn  water. 
He  smoked  a  pipe,  two  pipes.  By  that  time  the 
poet  was  cool,  and  the  man  of  humours  could  make 
himself  heard. 

**We  are  both  right — clearly.  She  is  right  to 
be  there — certainly  right.  I  am  right  to  be  here, 
at  work  against  her.  I  could  do  nothing  else.  Is 
she  to  put  her  foot  into  bottomless  black,  and  I  not 
stop  her?  Why  do  I  stop  her?  Because  I  fear  the 
black  about  her  stainless  white?  Because  I  love 
her  white  and  should  fear  her  black?  Not  so,  for 
it  may  easily  be  that  black's  as  good  a  wear  as  white. 
Que  sgay-je?  Your  reason,  Senhouse,  is  that  the 
world  has  laid  it  down,  White's  the  wear  for  women. 
It  comes  to  that,  my  friend,  wriggle  as  you  will. 
White's  the  wear  for  women;  because,  don't  you 
see,  if  they  wear  anything  else,  how's  a  man  to  know 
what  he's  buying  ?  And  where's  commerce  ?  where's 
property?  Whose  son  is  mine?  Oh,  you  fool,  you 
fool! 

''Not  so,  however.  If  the  world  says.  Women 
must  wear  white,  so  long  as  the  world  is  so,  white 
they  must  wear.  Who  is  the  man  living  who  dares 
put  his  darling  in  black?  Not  old  Percival,  the 
fond  merchant;  not  Senhouse,  the  fond  lover.  It 
can't  be:  let  the  girl  die  first.  So  we  must  say  if 
we  are  to  save  our  souls. 


MR.   SENHOaSE  MAKES  BOLD  305 

**Now,  pray  observe  precisely  what  I  am  about 
to  do.  I  meet  a  man,  whose  type  I  know  and 
abhor.  I  say  to  him,  'Fellow,  you  are  abominable 
to  me;  but  Sanchia  loves  you.  You  shall  take 
her  for  your  misusings,  you,  who  are  not  fit  to 
look  at  her  footprint  in  the  sand,  you  shall  take 
her,  and  make  her  wretched.  It  must  be  so,  for 
she  loves  you.  But  you  shall  only  take  her  in  such 
a  way  that  she  can  never  escape  from  you  but  by 
death;  for  so  the  world  has  decreed — that  women 
must  wear  white  satin.'  That's  to  be  my  pleading, 
and  it  cannot  be  anything  else.  It's  the  pleading  of 
old  Percival  too.  He  and  I,  we  agree,  are  on  the 
side  of  the  Angels."  The  poet  in  him  lifted  clenched 
hands  to  heaven.  ''The  Angels,  O  God!"  The 
man  of  humours  dropped  them  limp  to  his  sides. 
"No  more,  my  friend,  no  more.  Eat  your  slice  of 
pie,  and  be  done  with  it." 

The  man-servant  stared  at  the  strange  visitor, 
whose  bright  eyes  only,  and  cool  tones,  proclaimed 
the  gentleman.  Mr.  Ingram  was  certainly  at  home 
— and  he  would  inquire.  Had  the  gentleman  a 
card?  The  gentleman  had  no  card.  What  name 
might  he  say,  then?  Mr.  Senhouse;  Mr.  John 
Senhouse.     Very  good. 

Report  was  duly  carried  into  the  breakfast  room, 
where  Mr.  Ingram  was  lighting  a  long  cigar,  that 
• — yes,  on  the  whole,  yes — "a  gentleman  to  see  you, 
sir.     A  Mr.  Senhouse." 

Ingram   paused   with   the   match   flaring   in   his 


3o6  OPEN  COUNTRY 

hand  and  looked  sideways.  Bu  he  Ht  his  cigar  to 
a  glowing  heart  before  he  said  anything. 

Then,   "Mr.   Senhouse?    Who's   he,    Jackson?" 

Jackson  couldn't  say,  sir;  but  thought  a  strange 
gentleman,  perhaps  a  foreign  gentleman.  He  added 
in  excuse,  "Very  wild,  sir." 

"Wild,  is  he?  All  right,  Jackson;  I'll  have  a 
go  at  him  in  here." 

Jackson  retired;  Ingram  rose  and  stood  with 
outstretched  legs  before  the  wood  fire — the  Eng- 
lishman's fighting  position.  He  raised  his  chin 
that  he  might  settle  his  hunting-stock,  which  he 
wore  instead  of  a  colUir  and  tie.  It  w^as  pale  blue 
in  colour,  manifold,  fastened  with  a  gold  safety- 
pin.  For  the  rest  of  him,  he  was  in  breeches  and 
gaiters — breeches  whose  arching  thighs  were  to  the 
thin  knees  like  the  curves  of  two  crescent  moons 
set  horns  to  horns;  gaiters,  than  which  none  ever 
came  from  Jermyn  Street  to  make  a  pair  of  sturdy 
calves  more  like  mahogany  bed-pillars.  Thus  he 
waited,  cigar  in  mouth,  for  Mr.  Senhouse.  As 
for  his  face,  he  transformed  that  on  the  opening 
of  the  door  to  a  blanloiess  common  to  his  type  of 
host. 

Senhouse,  open  at  the  neck  and  loose  at  the 
knees,  swung  forward  with  his  hand  out. 

"Good-morning,  Mr.  Ingram.  You  remember 
me,  perhaps." 

Ingram  slowly  shook  hands.  "Yes,  I  think  so. 
How  d'ye  do?     Beastly  day!" 

"The   fog    is   lifting,"    Senhouse    said.     "You'll 


MR.   SENHOUSE  MAKES  BOLD  307 

have  it  hot  here  by  noon."  Ingram  was  looking 
out  of  window. 

"Hope  so!  Dare  say  you're  right.  Have  you 
breakfasted,  by  the  way?  Because,  if  not — "  He 
turned  to  the  bell. 

''Thanks!  Yes,  I  did.  Don't  get  anything  for 
me." 

Ingram  was  warming  his  hands,  and  still  looked 
very  blank  and  bland.  But  he  was  at  work,  for 
all  that,  as  his  question  should  have  told  the  visitor. 

"Came  up  by  the  night  mail,  I  suppose?" 

Senhouse,  however,  did  not  see  it.  "Yes,"  he 
said.  "It's  a  good  one.  A  little  too  good.  It 
landed  me  at  Felsboro'  at  three  o'clock  in  the  morn- 
ing." 

"Awful,  I  know,"  Ingram  said,  looking  about 
him  at  nothing  in  particular.  "If  you'd  wired  me 
I'd  have  had  you  met."  Then  he  struck  out  for 
himself.  "How  did  you  leave  Miss  Percival?"  he 
asked,  and  looked  straight  at  his  man. 

But  he  got  nothing  by  his  bold  attack.  Sen- 
house,  who  never  saw  implications,  always  wel- 
comed simplifications.  He  liked  Ingram  for  being 
direct. 

"She  seemed  to  me  perfectly  well.  I  haven't 
seen  her  since  that  afternoon  when  I  met  her  with 
you." 

"I  remember,"  said  Ingram.  "Won't  you  sit 
down?     Perhaps  you'll  smoke?" 

Senhouse  accepted  the  cigarette-box,  and  sat 
himself  down.     "You've  made  things  easy  for  me — 


3o8  OPEN  COUNTRY 

or  easier,"  he  said,  ''by  asking  after  Miss  Percival. 
We're  great  friends,  you  know."  Ingram  nodded, 
but  had  nothing  to  say.     Senhouse  went  on. 

"We  have  been  so  for  over  two  years.  We  met 
in  the  house  of  a  common  friend,  one  Lady  Maul- 
everer.  Miss  Percival  was  interested  in  my  affairs, 
and  perhaps  I  may  say  that  I  became  interested  in 
hers.  We  have  met  occasionally,  and  corresponded 
frequently.  I  used  to  help  her  with  her  water- 
colours." 

"I  know,"  said  Ingram;   "and  her  poetry." 

"And  her  poetry,"  Senhouse  agreed.  "One 
doesn't  often  find  girls  of  her  age  with  a  sense  for 
poetry,  and  when  one  does,  one  is  apt  to  value  their 
acquaintance.  Her  feeling  for  it  is  instinctive.  She 
takes  it  in  through  the  pores,  and " 

Ingram  was  stroking  his  buckskins.  "I  know," 
he  said  slowly.  "But  I  don't  suppose  you  came 
shooting  up  here  to  talk  about  poetry  to  me.  Shall 
we,  do  you  think,  come  to  the  point?" 

"Yes,"  Senhouse  said.  "I'm  much  obliged  to 
you  once  more.  But  it  was  necessary  to  make 
you  understand  how  she  and  I  stood." 

"And  do  you  think  you've  done  it?"  Ingram 
asked  him,  with  another  sharp  look. 

"Not  yet,"  said  Senhouse.  "It  is  now  my  busi- 
ness to  tell  you  that  I  love  her."  He  saw  the  flush 
under  the  brown  skin,  and  the  cold  gleam  in  the  eyes. 

"Have  no  concern  for  that,"  he  went  on.  "I 
saw  long  ago  that  I  had  no  chances  whatever  against 
yours.     I  contented  myself  as  best  I  might,  by  tell- 


MR.   SENHOUSE  MAKES   BOLD  309 

ing  her  so  from  a  distance.  It  has  made  no  differ- 
ence as  to  our  friendship,  thank  goodness,  and  it 
has  made  no  difference  to  my  love." 

Ingram  frowned.  "Damn  your  love!"  was  in 
his  mind,  but  he  said  nothing. 

*'Now,"  said  Senhouse,  leaning  forward,  "just 
consider  these  facts  in  the  light  of  what  I've  now 
told  you.  Miss  Percival,  who  was  one-and-twenty 
last  month,  has  been  cut  out  of  her  family's  Bible, 
by  her  mother,  and,  so  far  as  I  can  learn,  by  her 
sisters.  Her  father,  a  timid,  affectionate  old  gentle- 
man, daren't  have  her  home,  but  sees  her  furtively 
in  the  city.  No  doubt  he  would  see  that  she  didn't 
want  for  actual  money;  but  he's  not  supposed  to 
know  where  she  is.  In  actual  fact,  nobody  else 
knows  where  she  is  but  me.  Why  these  difficulties 
have  befallen  her  you  know  better  than  I  do.  But 
you'll  allow  me  to  say  that  they  concern  me  very 
much,  and  the  more  so  as  I'm  powerless  to  help  her. 
I  think  you'll  see  how  and  why  they  concern  me.  I 
think  you'll  probably  see  why  I'm  here.  In  order 
that  you  might,  I  took  leave  to  trouble  you  with  my 
private  affairs." 

Ingram  did  not  reply  at  first.  It  was  to  be  seen 
that  he  was  intensely  annoyed,  also  that  he  was 
tempted  to  lash  out  at  this  fellow,  who,  by  every 
word  that  he  uttered,  put  himself  more  fatally  in 
his  power.  Power  is  a  great  snare  to  a  man  of  this 
sort.  It's  really  rather  creditable  to  him  that  he 
restrained  himself.  He  did  so,  of  course,  because  he 
wanted  Sanchia's  address. 


3  TO  OPEN  COUNTRY 

As  usual,  he  struck  out  for  it.  "Where  is  Miss 
Percival  at  this  moment?" 

Senhouse,  smihng  darkly,  replied,  "She's  in 
London." 

"You've  told  me  that  already,"  Ingram  said 
sharply.     "I'm  asking  you  her  address  in  London." 

"I  know  you  are,"  Senhouse  replied.  "I  don't 
know,  however,  whether  I've  got  the  right  to  give 
it  you."  Then  they  settled  down  to  their  work  in 
earnest. 

"Does  she  know  that  you  are  here?" 

"She  knew  yesterday  that  I  intended  to  come." 

"Do  you  mean  that  she  sent  you?" 

"Far  from  that.     She  forbade  me  to  come." 

"Then  you  took  upon  yourself " 

"I  did.  You  would  have  done  the  same  in  my 
place." 

"I  am  not  in  your  place,  as  you  know  very  well. 
We  won't  discuss  these  things,  I  think.  I  take  it 
that  you  refuse  me  her  address?" 

"You  may  take  it  that  I'm  not  empowered  to 
give  it  you.  I  can  get  you  her  father's  address  in 
the  city." 

"I  won't  trouble  you,  thanks.     I  have  it." 

"He  has  his  daughter's  address,  you  know," 
Senhouse  said,  in  deadly  calm. 

"Look  here,"  said  Ingram,  "what  do  you  want 
with  me  here?"  Senhouse  absorbed  him — seemed 
to  suck  him  dry. 

"I  want  you — extraordinary  as  you  may  think 
it — to  marry  Miss  Percival." 


MR.   SENHOUSE  MAKES  BOLD  311 

Ingram  jumped  to  his  feet.  ''This  must  end," 
he  said.  '*I  don't  know  you— you  are  taking  a 
liberty.  My  affairs  are  not  yours,  and  I  simply 
decline  to  discuss  them  with  you.  Perhaps  you'll 
be  good  enough  to  understand  that." 

"I  do  understand  it,"  Senhouse  said.  "I  knew 
before  I  came  here  what  would  happen.  I  must 
ask  you  to  be  patient  with  me.     Miss  Percival " 

"You  shall  leave  her  name  out  while  you  talk 
to  me,"  Ingram  broke  in. 

Senhouse  said,  "How  can  I?  We  both  love 
her,  and  she  loves  you.  She  is  in  great  trouble, 
and  has  nothing  but  her  inexperience  to  protect 
her.  Her  inexperience,  and  me.  Whatever  it  costs 
me  in  the  loss  of  your  esteem,  you  can't  expect  me 
to  stand  by  and  do  nothing.  I  am  her  friend:  you 
know  it  as  well  as  she  knows  it.  Ver}^  well;  now 
listen  to  this.  I  undertake  to  tell  you  that  if  you 
go  to  her  father  with  your  proposals  of  marriage 
you'll  be  listened  to;  and  more  than  that.  The 
whole  of  this  disastrous  business  will  settle  itself 
down.  I'm  certain  of  it.  Now,  in  telling  you  that, 
I  take  it  that  I'm  giving  you  something  which  you 
didn't  know  before.  You  ought  to  be  obliged  to 
me  for  my  interference  in  your  affairs,  though  I 
can  see  that  you  are  not.  I  give  you — deliberately 
— a  way  out,  to  which,  so  far  as  I  can  see,  you  can't 
possibly  take  exception.  I  don't  sec  any  other  plan 
for  you — short  of 'leaving  her  alone." 

Midway  through  this  speech  Ingram  had  sud- 
denly changed  his  whole  purpose,  which  had  been 


312  OPEN  COUNTRY 

distinctly  to  ring  the  bell  and  have  the  visitor  shown 
the  door.  Midway,  however,  he  became  attentive, 
and  as  it  went  on  he  steadied  himself. 

He  was  now  almost  suave.  "You  have  put  the 
thing,  from  your  point  of  view,  very  fairly.  I  am 
bound  to  say  so.  I  don't  know  whether  I  can  go 
so  far  as  to  admit  any  obligation;  but  there's  no 
harm  in  owning  up  to  the  justification  which  you 
possess — or  which  I  suppose  you  possess." 

"My  justification,"  said  Senhouse,  "is  simply 
my  regard  for  Miss  Percival's  welfare." 

Ingram  smiled.  "Rather  more  than  that,  I 
should  have  thought.  You  saw  her  yesterday, 
you  tell  me?" 

Senhouse  nodded. 

"And  she  wrote,  no  doubt,  asking  you  to  come 
and  see  her?" 

"I  told  you  that  we  corresponded,"  Senhouse 
said. 

"Quite  so.  And  I  remember  that  you  hadn't 
seen  her  since  June,  when  she  introduced  us." 

"That's  quite  true." 

"Then,"  said  Ingram,  one  knee  on  a  chair,  and 
his  elbow  on  the  knee,  "then  I  may  assume  that, 
yesterday,  she  told  you,  for  the  first  time,  how 
things  stood  between  herself  and  me?" 

"Yes;  you  may  assume  that.  She  doesn't  write 
about  them." 

"She  prefers  to  talk?" 

"Yes." 

"Now,"   said   Ingram,   "you   have  been  talking 


MR.   SENHOUSE  MAKES  BOLD  313 

to  me  about  my  business,  and  I  have  admitted 
your  right,  or,  rather,  what  seems  to  you  to  be  your 
right.  I  wonder  if  you'll  allow  me  to  ask  you  this 
question.  What  did  Miss  Percival  propose  to 
do?" 

Senhouse  considered  him  and  his  smooth,  ap- 
parently direct  question.  He  liked  its  directness, 
but  its  smoothness  puzzled  him.  His  reply,  finally, 
was:  "She  proposed  to  do  nothing  but  employ 
herself." 

Ingram  commanded  his  patience.  "You  don't 
quite  understand  me.  She  told  you,  I  believe, 
something — possibly  everything — about  our  rela- 
tions. My  question  was  intended  to  be.  What 
did  she  propose  to  do  in  that  business?" 

"My  answer  again,"  Senhouse  said,  "is  that  she 
proposed  to  do  nothing.  Surely  you  don't  ask 
me  to  believe  that  it's  the  lady's  part — to  make 
proposals?"  Without  knowing  it,  by  right  instinct 
merely,  he  had  done  his  best  for  Sanchia. 

Ingram,  seeing  that  he  was  to  get  nothing  to  his 
purpose  by  his  questions,  was  now  plainly  fatigued. 
It  seemed  to  Senhouse  his  opportunity  for  an  appeal. 
He  got  up,  and  began  to  walk  the  floor. 

"There's  no  one  known  to  me  with  higher  cour- 
age than  Sanchia.  She  has  the  divine  fire  in  her; 
it  shines  in  every  act  of  her  life.  And  she  has  a 
mind;  she  can  think  out  her  course,  foresee  it,  and 
live  through  every  stage  of  it,  and  undergo  every 
stage's  previsioned  pain.     To  love  such  a  woman 


314 


OPEN   COUNTRY 


as  she  must  become  is — must  be — to  be  put  on  one's 
mettle.  You  know — you  can't  have  lived  in  her 
society  as  you  have,  can't  have  commended  yourself 
to  her,  gained  her  confidence,  and  won  her  heart, 
without  being  the  greater  man.  You  won't  deny 
it — I  am  certain  that  to  every  stave  I  sang  in  her 
honour,  you  would  sing  a  louder.  Don't  think  I 
grudge  you  your  triumph;  I  declare  that  I  could 
give  her  to  you  with  thanksgiving.  If  you'll  have 
me  at  your  wedding,  I  shall  come  gaily.  I  should 
be  proud  to  be  the  friend  of  the  man  whom  she 
loved.  He  must  be  a  better  man  than  I  am.  I  de- 
sire, therefore,  your  friendship.  It  would  not  be 
possible  for  me  to  suppose  you  would  meditate  a 
wrong  against  her.  If  I  did  that,  do  you  think  I 
should  be  here?  I  declare  to  you  that  I  know 
you  incapable  of  it.  When  I  told  you  that  I  hoped 
you  would  marry  her,  I  meant  it  with  a  whole  heart. 
She  loves  you  and  waits  for  you.  She  trusts  you 
utterly.  God  is  my  judge  that  I  cannot  do  other- 
wise. What  she  has  been  to  me — a  lamp,  an  in- 
spiration— that  and  much  more  she  will  be  to  you. 
Have  no  fear.  She  has  said  things  to  me  of  you 
which  you  yourself  may  hardly  expect  to  hear  from 
her.  But  you'll  do  better:  she  will  live  them;  you'll 
see  her  thoughts  at  work.  Now,  listen  to  this: 
I'm  perfectly  serious.  She  has  in  her  a  capacity 
for  self-sacrifice  which,  to  me,  argues  a  Godhead. 
Possibly  all  good  women  in  love  have  the  same: 
probably  they  have.  I  have  never  been  in  love 
with  a  good  woman  before,  and  shall  never  love 


MR.   SENHOUSE  MAKES  BOLD  315 

another.  One  reads  of  Antigone,  and  Iphigenia, 
and  others:  great  tales  which  we  believe  as  we 
read.  Mr.  Ingram,  Sanchia  will  do  what  the  poets 
fabled.  I  read  it  yesterday  in  her  steadfast  eyes; 
I  heard  it  spoken  calmly  from  her  lips.  If  that 
don't  humble  you,  it  humbled  me.  I  went  out  from 
her  door  a  better  fellow.  If  I  never  see  her  again, 
never  hear  from  her — these  things  I  leave  to  her — 
I  shall  be  content.  I  have  seen  her  face  the  world 
in  arms,  and  have  grace  enough  to  know  my  salva- 
tion when  it's  before  me."  He  stopped  and  looked 
queerly  about  him — seemed  to  awake  out  of  sleep. 
"I  don't  know  what  I've  been  saying.  You  must 
forgive  me.     I  love  her,  you  know." 

Ingram  was  still  suave.  *'I  know,  I  know.  I 
quite  understand.  I'm  very  much  obliged  to  you 
for  coming — and  for  what  you've  said  about  my- 
self. I  don't  speak  so  readily  as  you  do,  you  know. 
I  know  very  well  what  I  mean  to  do,  and  am  con- 
tent to  leave  my  intentions  in — in  Miss — in  her 
hands,  you  know.  I  am  glad  we  are  to  part — if  we 
must  part — in  this  way.  Very  glad  indeed.  You 
told  me  just  now  that  you  trusted  me — may  I  ask 
you  to  show  it?  I  think  that  I  should  have  her 
address  in  London.     I  do  indeed." 

Senhouse  looked  at  him.  It  was  on  the  tip  of 
his  tongue.  Then  he  lifted  his  hands.  "I  can't 
do  it.  I'm  awfully  sorry.  She  didn't  authorise 
me —  No,  no,  don't  ask  me  that.  I  should  go 
directly  to  her  father's  office,  if  I  were  you — with 
your  proposals.     That's  all  I  can  say." 


3i6  OPEN  COUNTRY 

"It's  all  you  intend  to  say,  anyhow,"  Ingram 
said,  highly  chagrined. 

"My  dear  sir,"  Senhouse  protested,  "it's  all  that 
is  possible."  Ingram  made  no  reply.  They  parted 
amicably,  Senhouse  most  unwilling  to  go;  but  In- 
gram was  determined  to  get  rid  of  him. 

Senhouse  well  away,  he  rang  the  hall  bell.  "  Jack- 
son," he  said,  "tell  Ambrose  to  pack  my  things. 
A  lot  of  things.  I'm  going  to  London  until  further 
notice.  I  shall  go  by  the  two  o'clock  train,  so  he'd 
better  look  sharp.  I  shall  want  him,  of  course. 
And  Vickars  had  better  take  those  horses  back. 
I  shan't  ride.     That's  all,  Jackson." 

Jackson  retired,  and  the  master  of  Wanless  stood 
in  mid-hall,  his  hands  deep  in  his  breeches  pockets. 

"A  damned,  impudent,  hardy  rascal,"  he  said 
to  himself.     "A  damned  chap." 


CHAPTER  XXVII 

VALEDICTORY    EPISTLE    FROM    THE    OPEN    COUNTRY 

On  his  return  to  London  from  Felsboro'  my 
stricken  friend  called  at  Beauchamp  Place,  but 
failed  to  find  his  divinity.  She  was,  no  doubt,  at 
her  school  in  Chancery  Lane. 

He  was  allowed  into  her  room  to  write  her  a  note, 
and  found  it  fragrant  with  her  late  presence.  Her 
writing-case,  some  pencils,  a  camel's-hair  brush; 
violets  in  a  tumbler;  the  little  Dante,  the  Shelley 
which  he  had  given  her:  on  the  mantelpiece  a  pho- 
tograph of  Ingram's  light  eyes,  cropped  head,  and 
jutting  chin.  There  also,  had  he  but  seen  it  (but 
he  did  not),  was  another  reminiscence:  Percy 
Charnock's  chance  shot  of  herself  dipped  half  in 
the  pool  and  of  her  servitor  afloat  on  the  bed-raft. 
That  he  did  not  see — and  it  may  have  been  well  for 
him,  since  the  past  was  most  past,  as  he  knew,  and 
such  sharp  remembrance  had  best  go  with  it. 

He  wrote  his  note : — 

''I  have  been,  and  returned.  Forgive  me  that 
I  dared  do  no  less,  and  have  done  so  little.  To- 
morrow to  fresh  woods!  Know  me  only  for  yours 
my  life  long,  to  use  where  you  can  and  how  you 
will.     Charnock's   house   will   always   find    me.     I 

317 


3i8  OPEN  COUNTRY 

shall  never  be  far  from  you;   a  part  of  you  will  al- 
ways be  with  me. — J.  S." 

Then  he  went  his  way  out  into  the  Open,  and 
if  he  felt  winter  already  in  the  wind,  he  had  his 
philosophy  for  a  muffler. 

He  wrote  to  her  no  more,  and  heard  nothing 
from  her  through  that  winter.  He  plunged  him- 
self into  his  works;  lost  his  taste  for  painting,  but 
wrote  much — among  other  things,  his  Defence  of 
Anarchy^  which,  I  understand,  made  some  stir  in 
the  retired  eddies  of  the  European  stream,  and  his 
Braw'oniaji,  a  sequence  of  Sonnets,  which  made 
no  stir  at  all,  anywhere.  He  began  his  gardening 
upon  a  serious  plan,  using  England  itself  for  his 
garden-plot — a  work  which  was  to  cause  some 
mind-searching  on  the  part  of  students  of  our 
wilds  and  a  good  deal  of  commotion  among  game- 
keepers, bailiffs,  and  coast-inspectors.  He  told 
himself  that  his  zest  for  living  at  large  was  gone; 
he  told  himself  so  at  frequent  intervals.  But  he 
made  no  advances  to  his  father  the  Alderman,  and 
declined  the  amenities  of  Bifl  Hill  (warmed  through- 
out with  hot  air)  in  favour  of  a  gipsy  tent  at  the 
covert's  edge  when  the  north-easters  of  February 
were  driving  the  snow  down  the  glades,  and  the 
ground  was  like  ridged  metal. 

About  the  end  of  February  he  was  in  Wiltshire, 
on  the  Dorsetshire  border,  using  the  hospitalities 
of  an  appreciative  peer.  A  great  and  ancient  yew- 
wood  lies  there  in  a  hollow  of  the  downs;  a  home 


VALEDICTORY  EPISTLE  319 

of  mysterious  peace.  From  its  southern  edge  the 
rolHng  grass  runs  up  Hke  racing  waves  to  Pentridge. 
Barrow  and  tumulus,  mist-pool  and  dyke  are  all  the 
features  in  the  pale  waste  of  grass:  mere  dimples 
and  scars  in  its  grey  immensity.  Such  as  we  are 
in  the  starry  field,  such  are  our  Hic-jacets  on  the 
wrinkled  earth.  Crouching  here,  on  the  lee  of  the 
great  wood — a  thousand  years  in  whose  sight  are 
but  as  yesterday — warming  his  thin  hands  at  a  fire 
of  drift,  our  friend  looked  out  over  the  empty 
world,  and  could  still  say,  "I  am  made  one  with 
Nature." 

He  watched  steadily  the  faint  light  of  the  sun 
upon  the  hills,  saw  now  and  then  a  hare  bounce  for 
a  few  short  yards,  and  then  sit  high  on  the  watch, 
with  ears  erect.  Afar  off,  like  a  white  blur  upon 
the  dun,  he  guessed  at  a  flock  of  sheep;  and  on  the 
horizon  presently  saw  the  gaunt  and  giant  form  of 
a  shepherd  in  a  cloak.  Keen-sighted  as  he  was, 
he  saw  the  man's  hands  clasped  on  the  head  of  his 
staff,  and  at  his  feet  his  dog,  like  a  black  speck. 
Nesting  plovers  wheeled  and  wailed;  behind  him 
a  robin  shrilled  for  company.  Nothing  was  astir 
on  this  bare  March  evening ;  but  hidden  in  the  stony 
sods  he  knew  the  green  sprouts  were  breathing, 
The  time  is  at  hand;  is  always  at  hand. 

What  we  can  do  is  so  little;  our  courage  to  do  it 
is  so  much.  Courage  is,  in  fact,  our  life — to  tell 
ourselves  the  truth,  and  to  do  it.  Life  is  a  lovely 
thing  when  our  hopes  are  high,  but  the  secret  is  to 
know  it  lovely  and  loveworthy  when  we  have  no 


320  OPEN  COUNTRY 

hopes  at  all,  and  see  nothing  before  us  but  this  dun 
waste,  this  frost,  this  dumbness,  and  this  eternal 
death.  So  he  lifted  up  his  eyes  unto  the  hills — to 
Pentridgc  the  grey  and  old — and  hailed  them  for 
comrades. 

Habit  is  strong;  Use-and-Wont,  behind  whose 
skirts  we  cower — like  partridge-chicks  when  the 
hawk  wheels  up  into  our  sky — she,  the  old  hen- 
bird,  can  use  her  beak  upon  us  when  we  choose 
impudently  for  the  Open  Country.  She  had  hit 
him,  Senhouse,  only  yesterday  a  sounding  buffet 
with  her  dusty  wings,  when  a  gamekeeper  had  de- 
livered him  a  letter  from  the  post-office  at  Sixpenny- 
Handley  which  bore  the  postmark  Felsboro',  R.S.O., 
and,  opened,  began,  ''Wanless  Hall,  My  dear  Jack." 
No  need  to  look  at  the  signature,  "Yours  ever, 
Sanchia,"  to  tell  him  its  news.  She  had  made  her 
great  leap  into  the  dark.  That  truth  pealed  in 
his  brain  straight  and  hot  from  his  heart. 

He  had  kept  vigil  upon  it  all  night  in  the  deep 
yew- wood.  In  the  morning  he  had  slept,  and  when 
he  awoke  it  sat  at  his  head.  During  the  day  he  had 
roamed  the  hills,  drifting  like  one  of  the  peewits  of 
the  grass,  not  voicing  his  griefs  as  they  do,  but  griev- 
ing internally,  wailing  at  the  heart.  Now  as  he 
sat  and  looked  upon  great  Pentridge  he  was  able  to 
tell  himself  the  truth,  and  to  do  it. 

The  pang  and  ache  of  loss— they  were  his,  and 
must  be.  Deadly  fear  had  been  with  him  all  night; 
but  now  he  could  look  on  Pentridge  and  tell  him- 
self there  was  nothing  to  fear.     No  harm  ever  yet 


VALEDICTORY  EPISTLE  321 

fell  on  a  good  woman.  He  could  say  so  now,  and 
believe  it. 

Do  him  the  justice  to  believe  that  it  had  never 
entered  his  mind  to  blame  her.  Blame  her!  What, 
for  an  act  of  divine  compassion,  for  a  swift,  un- 
faltering act  of  love,  sprung,  as  the  love  of  God 
springs  from  pure  Pity!  Ah,  no  indeed.  He  could 
thank  his  Gods  simply  that  his  eyes  had  seen  such 
a  flight  as  this  of  hers.  The  deed,  and  the  way  of 
it,  the  swift,  unerring  way  of  it,  seemed  to  him 
miraculous  in  one  born  of  a  woman.  His  eyes  filled 
now  with  tears,  but  they  were  gentle.  **0  God,  be 
with  her  always!"  Resolute  to  scan  the  Open 
Country  with  his  prayer  upon  his  lips,  he  thought  to 
see  the  sun-stream  burn  upon  the  hills.  And  as  he 
looked  for  it,  it  was  there. 

He  wrote  to  her  before  dusk.  "I  wish  you  happy, 
and  believe  that  you  will  be  so.  You  have  been  true 
to  yourself:  there's  no  other  way.  Many  have 
done  as  you,  Sanchia,  but  none,  I  believe,  so  simply, 
with  such  singleness  of  heart.  The  Gods,  of  whose 
company  you  are,  keep  you !  Yes,  you  will  be  happy, 
my  dear  one;  and  I  shall  know  it,  and  rejoice. 
Farewell!" 

THE  END 


BOOKS   BY   MAURICE   HEWLETT 

PUBLISHED  by  CHARLES  SCRIBNER'S  SONS 

Half^vay  House 

A  Comedy  of  Degrees 

12mo.     $1.50 

"  Brilliantly  told  and  interesting." — New  York  Sun. 

"  In  '  Halfway  House '  substance  and  style  are  per- 
fectly blended.  The  book  is  justly  called  a  comedy. 
It  is  a  thing  of  action  and  the  action  is  true  to 
nature.  It  required  courage  to  handle  the  theme  of 
the  book  and  genuine  feeling  to  make  it  sympathetic. 
In  both  respects  the  author  has  splendidly  justified 
himself." — JVew  York  Tribu?ie. 

"  It  moves  at  a  canter,  being  one  of  the  most  skilfully 
balanced  novels  we  have  read.  It  has  inimitable 
comedy  in  the  relations  of  Blackheath  and  Mayfair, 
and  a  mellow  common  sense." — Chicago  Evening  Post. 

"  The  great  literary  skill  and  astonishing  gift  for  nar- 
rative and  characterization  which  give  Mr.  Hewlett's 
former  books  so  high  a  place,  are  doubly  effective  and 
striking  when  applied,  as  in  '  Halfway  House,'  to  the 
creation  of  a  modern  novel  of  manners." 

— Philadelphia  North  American. 


BOOKS    BY   MAURICE    HEWLETT 

PUBLISHED  by  CHARLES  SCRIBNER'S  SONS 

The  Forest  Lovers 

A   Romance 

12mo.   $1.50 

"  The  book  is  a  joy  to  read,  and  to  remember  a  source 
of  clean,  pure  delight." — The  Dial. 

"  '  The  Forest  Lovers '  is  no  mere  literary  tour  de 
force,  but  an  uncommonly  attractive  romance,  the 
charm  of  which  is  greatly  enhanced  by  the  author's 
excellent  style." — The  Spectator. 

"A  remarkable  book." — The  London  Academy. 

The  Life  and  Death  of 
Richard  Yea  and  Nay 

12mo.    $1.50 

"  He  has  done  one  of  the  most  notable  things  in  recent 
literature,  a  bit  of  master  craftsmanship,  touched  by 
the  splendid  dignity  of  real  creation."— 77/<'  Interior. 

"  We  have  to  thank  Mr.  Hewlett  for  a  most  beautiful 
and  fascinating  picture  of  a  glorious  time  ...  we 
know  of  no  other  writer  to-day  who  could  have 
done  it." — London  Daily  Chronicle. 


BOOKS  BY   MAURICE    HEWLETT 

PUBLISHED  by  CHARLES  SCRIBNER'S  SONS 

The  Queen's  Quair 

Or,  The  Six  Years'  Tragedy 

12mo.    $1.50 

"That  Mr.  Maurice  Hewlett  would  give  us  a  flaming, 
wonderful  picture  of  Queen  Mary  was  a  foregone  con- 
clusion. It  must  inevitably  pulsate  with  the  colour,  the 
virility,  the  passion  of  the  Renaissance.  .  .  .  Hitherto 
it  is  probable  that  no  portrait  has  been  so  vivid,  so  true 
in  its  unblushing  realism,  and  at  the  same  time  so  in- 
stinct with  sensuous  grace  as  that  which  Mr.  Hewlett 
has  painted  for  us." — Westminster  Gazette. 

Ne^v  Canterbury  Tales 

Including  The  Scrivener's  Tale  of  the  Countess  Alys, 
Dan  Costard's  Tale  of  Peridore  and  Paravail, 
Percival   Perceforest's   Tale   of 
Eugenic  and  Galcotto,  etc. 

12mo.     $1.50 

"  The  stories  are  mediaeval  to  the  very  core  and  show 
extraordinary  perception  of  the  inner  life  of  a  distant 
and  alien  age." — The  Outlook. 

The  Fool  Errant 

12mo.     $1.50 

"  Nothing  else  quite  so  good  in  its  own  way  has  come 
to  us  since  Charles  Reade  wrote  the  '  Cloister  and  the 
Hearth.'  " — Philadelphia  Ledger. 

"A  wonderful  creation  which  Mr.  Hewlett  has  never 
surpassed." — New  York  Times. 


BOOKS  BY   MAURICE    HEWLETT 

PUBLISHED  by  CHARLES  SCRIBNER'S  SONS 


Little  Novels  of  Italy 

12mo.    $1.50 

"  The  most  finished  studies  which  have  appeared  since 
the  essays  of  Walter  Pater." — London  Daily  Telegraph. 

"  The  stories  are  so  true  to  their  locality  that  they  read 
almost  like  translations." — New  York  Times. 

The  Road  in  Tuscany 

A  Commentary 

2  Volumes.     12mo.    $6.00  Net 

"  Every  one  who  wishes  to  have  an  English  library  of 
books  of  and  on  Italy  should  have  this  frank  and 
charming  comment  upon  Tuscany." 

— Chicago  Tribune. 

Earthv^ork  Out  of 
Tuscany 

Being  Impressions  and  Translations  of 
Maurice  He^vlett 

12mo.     $2.00 

"  Written  with  the  lightness,  the  delicacy,  the  felicity 
of  the  painter  whose  colors  are  words  fitly  chosen." 

— San  Francisco  Argonaut. 


THE  UNIVERSITY  LIBRARY 

This  book  is  DUE  on  the  last  date  stamped  below 


Form  I/-I' 
ar,M-io,'ii(2ii'li 


UNIVERSITY  Of  CAUFORNIA 

AT 

LOS  ANGELES 

LIBRARY 


PR 

4787 

061 


